


By and By

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 12 Step Programs, AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ch 29 references 3x06, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gallavich, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, MIckey climbs Ian like a squirrel climbs a tree, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Narcotics Anonymous, No 13th stepping bitch!, Or you met the love of your life young and under terrible circumstances., Post-Season/Series 03, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Sponsorship, Suicide, Too much playing the sims, Why is chopping peppers my go to for cooking?, animal abuse (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 118,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Mickey and Ian both end up in recovery, but the path is a rocky one. This is their journey, through the steps, to each other.Title is from Caamp's By and By.(All readings, steps, and literature are owned by Narcotics Anonymous. Please don't sue me.)If you or someone you know needs help with a substance use disorder, visit NA.org for help and local meetings, include Zoom and Discord meetings during the pandemic.This fic has a cover, designed by the incredible wildxwiredBy and ByYou can find me on twitter @thesermymonkeys
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 293
Kudos: 228
Collections: A Little Hope





	1. Who is an Addict? (May)

**Author's Note:**

> Who Is an Addict?
> 
> Most of us do not have to think twice about this question. We know! Our whole life and thinking was centered in drugs  
> in one form or another—the getting and using and finding ways and means to get more. We lived to use and used  
> to live. Very simply, an addict is a man or woman whose life is controlled by drugs. We are people in the grip of a  
> continuing and progressive illness whose ends are always the same: jails, institutions, and death

**_May 12th_ **

Mickey was not quite open minded about the whole process. He had no intention of stopping using, why would he?

Stop _selling_? That was his main source of income, man,

Instead of a well-meaning family member giving a shit about how he was throwing his life away, Mickey had no one. Mickey had the cops, and the courts. Mickey was ordered to rehab through Drug Court.

One of his street guys had rolled on him, selling out Mickey's distribution with intent to get a reduced sentence.

Once the court-appointed legal counsel explained to Mickey that it was just 30 days, and his record would be cleared if he stayed clean and went to meetings for 3 years after, he took the deal. 

He'd done two stints in juvie, what could 30 days in rehab hurt him?

Rehab was like summer camp, a place where they talked about fucking _feelings_ , and all that. 

Mickey didn't have any _feelings_.

What he had were problems that needed fixing, and problem number one was his court case. 

The decision made itself, really.

* * *

_**May 28** _

It was almost easy for Ian to accept the help, when it was offered. He had been crashing in an abandoned building with a few tweakers when Fiona found him, dragging him out bodily. 

Dazzled by the midday sun, he still felt chilled, and when she told him she was taking him to a rehab, he just nodded dully, too tired and beaten to argue. 

It wasn't a fancy place, Fiona explained, but it was covered by her insurance, and they had a bed open tonight.

He figured it was better than jail or the psych ward. _Again_.


	2. Rehab (May 15- June 15)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's experience in rehab.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack: Costa Rica by The National Parks

The facility wasn’t fancy or cushy. It was, weirdly enough, on the 12th floor of a high rise in downtown Chicago. There may have been normal businesses on every other floor, who could tell? The men got shuttled down the elevators 4 times a day for overlapping smoke breaks, which was their only opportunity to check out the other units, one for women and one for Dual Diagnoses (people with both addiction and mental health issues).

Mickey hated every minute of it. The enforced wake ups, the shitty food, the scratchy neutral clothing, the stupid-ass family classes (his family never came, obviously), the terminally boring speakers who always were these old dudes who called heroin “H” or “horse” and tried to look cool with gold chains and clean sneakers. Mickey tuned those fuckers right out. The meetings, where people sat in a circle and read shit, and then the praying. Mickey would thumb his lip, obviously not even mouthing the words to the thing. He was no bitch, no one could make him say shit like that.

The broken games and puzzles missing pieces. Even the scrabble dictionary was ripped in half, every word after Persimmon just … gone. The chores, god the ridiculous chores he kept getting saddled with because he hadn’t buddied up with any of the gangs or cliques. ANd if he didn’t do his chores? No fucking smoke breaks.

Every morning he woke up and told himself 100 reasons why he should just walk out, go AMA, and fuck the consequences. It didn’t help that kicking in this place was its own special brand of hell. His skin crawled and he couldn’t drink enough of the crappy off-brand Kool-aid they had access to. 

The worst part, the very worst part, in his humble fucking opinion, if anyone had asked, which they did not, because they knew better, was the smoke schedule. The ‘patients’ weren’t allowed to smoke indoors, and because they were in a skyscraper, they had to wait until the four scheduled smoke breaks throughout the day, 8am, Lunch, Dinner, and 9pm. But since Mickey had thus far refused to do his chores, he never got a single smoke break. It felt like asking him to effectively give up nicotine on top of everything else was adding insult to injury and his body hated him right now.

The other ‘patients’ were … whatever. They played this game, whenever someone new got admitted, they placed bets on what the person’s drug of choice was. 

“That guy’s definitely a crackhead.”

“Nah man, PCP. Angel dust. I seen that look before.”

“No shit, I thought PCP was gone in the 80’s?”

“You can get it if you-”

“-Gentlemen.” 

That would be the care worker, who had to discourage any behavior or discussion that could be interpreted as glorifying using. So, sources and hot spots were right out, as were schemes for ripping folks off, sharing personal contact information, and relationships. Not that Mickey would look twice at the men in the rehab. They were all too skinny, wiry, with thin sallow skin that spoke of liver problems. Hep C, probably, if they had been sharing needles.

So Mickey kept having the internal debate, the go-stay-leave-run fight, round and round in his head, for the first 4 days, while he puked and shit his guts out, memorably one time waking from a dead sleep to lean out of his bunk and vomit on his bunkie’s shoes. He wasn’t here to make friends: he was here to stay out of big-boy jail time. He wasn’t a punk, and he could do this time standing on his head, even if he puked when he seriously considered the idea of being upside down.

By the ninth day, the incessant nausea had eased up, and the shakes were mostly gone. He had also acquiesced to doing a chore when a somewhat empathetic tech asked him to hand out the sugar for the morning’s coffee. (‘Why couldn’t they just have unlimited access to sugar’ was a question Mickey didn’t bother asking.) So he stood by the coffee urn, which tasted like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration, and handed out the little paper packets of white powder. The irony was not lost on him, but he got to stand in line by the elevator for his first smoke break that day.

His group of ten rode the elevator down and then walked through the lobby to a fenced in concrete patio area. A worker reminded the group that if butts were on the ground, they’d lose their privileges, then ignored the men in favor of zoning out on a cell phone. That first inhale was like magic. Mickey felt parts of his lungs open up and practically sing to his brain. 

All too soon, their break was over, and the worker hustled them back into the lobby. Once the carriage had descended, a different group of people emerged. Each wore scrubs, but they didn’t look like medical personnel. These people were… unwell. Fucked up, more like it. One woman kept scratching her head, then grabbing her own hand away, before the cycle would start again. Two men were having a hissed argument, until their staff member spoke their names sternly. As the group emptied from the elevator, a taller patient emerged, wearing a navy hoodie over his scrubs, his hands were thrust deep into the pockets, and the hood covered most of his hair, his eyes downcast. 

Mickey wasn’t watching at first, but then the breeze from the closing patio door caught the man’s hood and slid it back. Not a lot, just an inch or two. And Mickey’s eyes were drawn, fixed, fastened on the patch of fire-red hair that had appeared. He didn’t even have time to look more closely, as he was being urged onto the elevator and whisked back upstairs.

* * *

The same day, Mickey had an appointment with a counselor. He’d had one every few days, actually, but he’d stonewalled each well-intentioned person stolidly. He expected this appointment to be more of the same. The hippie-feelings-person would ask questions, he’d shrug, or scoff, or just ignore them. It would last 30 minutes or less, and then he could go back to whatever pickup, no stakes, card game he could get a seat in. Lately, it had been Uno, though at least one Draw 2 card was made from the back cover of a novel. 

He had been directed to a new office, but he didn’t have any trepidation. Opening the door, the first thing his eyes fell on was a hugely thick file with his name on the cover. Loose pages were stuffed in here and there, and different color tabs ran up the side. A new but clearly soft counselor was seated in a cheap desk chair, typing quickly on an ancient computer.

Mickey glanced around, but the woman didn’t even acknowledge his entrance. He shut the door, and sat down, eyeing the folder. After a moment, the young woman’s tapping ceased and she turned to look at him fully. 

“Hi, Mickey. I’m Emily.”

“Hey,” he bit out.

She seemed undeterred by his monosyllabic response, and pulled the gigantic folder closer, flipping the cover open. She paged through, either speed reading or reviewing previously read material. He was urgently and hotly curious about the contents, but kept his face neutral, disinterested.

She caught his glance, closing the cover definitively.

“So, Mickey, why did your father try to kill you when you were 17?”

“That’s none of your f-”

“- He can’t hurt you right now, you know?”

Mickey stopped protesting. Without the years of substances numbing his feelings, the first feeling he’d had when she asked was fear. Icy fear slithering through his veins, freezing him in place.

“Dunno,” he finally muttered.

“Oh, ok. Because I have another client, you know?”

Mickey suddenly focused only on her.

“And I think you two have some shared experiences. I was hoping you could help me.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t give anything away. He didn’t even fucking breath.

She continued, undeterred, “I don’t normally work with your population, you know? I work with the Dual Diagnosis program.” 

_ Ian. Ian. Ian. _ Pounding in his brain with his heartbeat. His blood had dissolved and his body was now powered by  _ Ian. Ian. Ian. _

“I don’t know none of those rejects.”

Emily stared at him, judging, then relaxed.

“Oh, ok. Must have gotten bad info. You can head back to group now.”

Mickey slunk out of her office. He knew who she meant. She knew he knew. But she’d let him off the hook. Why?

* * *

  
  


Because rehab was all about giving and taking away, Mickey paid for that first smoke break with more than chores. At that evening’s 12 step meeting, he was called on. It was supposed to be for any substance, but the speaker had been an AA fanatic, spouting cliches like “Put the plug in the jug” and other bullshit, in Mickey’s opinion. The topic had been some shit about accepting your disease. So when the group leader called on him, Mickey wasn’t ready. He’d been daydreaming, off in space, looking out the hazy window at the skyline.

“Mickey, why don’t you share with us tonight?”

…

“Mickey?”

“What the fuck you want me to say?”

“The topic’s acceptance of your disease. Do you have any experience on the topic you’d like to share?”

“Acceptance of my disease?” Mickey was totally stalling.

The facilitator nodded.

“I uh-I don’t think I have a disease.”

A sharp inhale echoed around the room as eyes rolled through the circle.

“No, I mean, I get that some of yous have a disease, like you can’t stop using, whatever. But I’m not like that.” He stopped.

“How are you different, Mickey?”

“I never had a problem stopping the drugs. That’s the problem for you all- right, you can’t stop. I can stop. Simple.”

“So why do you think you’re here, in a drug rehab, then?”

“Take that up with the judge.”

“I’m asking  **you** .”

Mickey let the bravado drop just a tiny bit.

“I dunno, man.”

“You know, some people aren’t addicted to the substance, as much as they’re addicted to the lifestyle. Do you think that might apply to you?”

The facilitator was really talking only to Mickey now, the rest of the men cast off to audience status. 

“The lifestyle?” Mickey was stalling, again.

“Yeah like, the money, the danger, the adrenalin.”

Mickey nodded, just once, then huffed out a breath and thumbed his lip.

“You think- you think I’m addicted to money and danger? Do you know where I’m from, asshole?”

“Relax, Mickey. This isn’t an attack. Just think it through; you’re here for a reason, you’re here for thirty days, maybe you could consider what your life would look like without selling.”

Mickey sat back, crossing his arms across his chest, not making eye contact.

“It’s ok, Mickey. You don’t have to answer right now. Who else hasn’t shared yet?”

The facilitator’s attention moved on.

* * *

He didn’t see the flaming hair again for a while. Even though he did all his chores, and stayed just on the right side of the regulations so he could go out on every smoke break, the elevators just didn’t cooperate, and he never even saw a glance of another group, let alone the one his cold heart told him couldn’t possibly be here.

Day 15, though. On the fifteenth day, at the last smoke break of the day, after dinner, having given up all hope and convinced himself he didn’t even see anything in the first place, as the elevator doors opened to let his group out to the lobby and patio, the Dual Diagnosis group was waiting to go back up. Walking out at the back of his cohort, Mickey had a clear view of the DD’s. The head scratching woman was there again, though only one of the hissing argument men. And there, half a head above the rest of the group, was a pale face, luminous in the weak fluorescents, with freckles like constellations, was Ian Gallagher. 

Mickey’s breath stuttered, but his step was sure. He pushed through the crowd, head ducked. Ian hadn’t seen him, had he? There was no indication, no eye contact, no frisson of energy. Mickey didn’t know which outcome he was hoping for, so he rushed out to the patio and lit up. His hand shook ever so slightly, but he told himself that was the post-acute-withdrawal symptoms. 

* * *

  
  


He had a few more appointments with Emily. She had never asked him again about anything that could conceivably be connected to Ian, and he slowly opened his shell for her. Not much, not a lot. Just a few laughs, when she made a good joke at her own expense. She was young, cute, even though she did nothing for him, and she respected his boundaries. Smart too, she was studying to be a sign language interpreter for the UN, she told him one time. Of course, then she turned the conversation to him getting a GED, and community college. He’d laughed in her face, getting a perverse thrill in the sad look in her big brown eyes. 

“You know what Milkovich means in Ukranain?”

“I don’t.”

“Shit interpreter you’re gonna be.”

“So what’s it mean?”

“Means fucked for life.”

The sad look was back. He couldn’t rile her up with cursing, with meanness to her, but he could make her sad by being cruel to himself. 

On another occasion, her cell phone beeped deep in a drawer during their session. Cell phones were officially prohibited for staff at all times, though the techs often used them on their breaks. But the counselors were the top of the heap, and he’d never seen a counselor use a cell phone before. 

“Do you mind if I…?”

He put his hands out- go right ahead, he gestured.

She pulled out the tiniest, pinkest iPhone he could imagine. It might even have been bedazzled, had some kinda glittery shit on it. She read her text, tapped out a quick reply, then tucked it back into her desk.

“My girlfriend. We have a new kitten and she isn’t used to cats.”

Mickey chewed over this new information. Emily was gay. Or bi, maybe. She had a girlfriend, serious enough to get a kitten.

“That’s cool,” he said finally. “My sister brought home a litter of stray kittens once.”

“Oh? Do you still have any of them?” 

“Nah, my dad got mad and drowned ‘em like two days later.”

He wasn’t trying to make her sad this time, not when she’d broken a rule and shared a tiny piece of her life, but there it was, he was fucked for life, and her eyes were sad again. Maybe he could…

“I thought I was a fag once.”

This caught her attention.

“Just once?”

He knew by now she (probably) wasn’t making fun of him.

“Well, just for this one guy, this one time.”

“What happened with him?”

“Nothin’ happened. I was wrong. Shit happens.”

“Oh, Mickey, I’m sorry.”

“The fuck you sorry for?”

She reached out, almost like she was going to pat his hand, but he yanked both hands into his lap.

“Hey, fuck you. Don’t feel bad for me. Feel bad for your dyke girlfriend who doesn’t even know how to take care for a fucking cat.”

Emily didn’t hold it against him, just sent him off to lunch.

* * *

It was always going to happen. Mickey was going to hit his limit of meetings, of prayer, of chores, of bad food and truly horrific coffee. Then he’d have to finally choose, stay or go.

What set him off was little, really. He’d been on mop duty that week, and he’d done a fantastic job in the shower room. Corners clean and everything. Then that fat fuck Dan, the 50-year old coke head who snorted everything he and his clients owned up his nose, had walked in the bathroom with his dirty ass sneakers on, tracking shit across the clean floor. Mickey had launched at him across the game room, throwing punches as Dan basically rolled up in a ball and cried, Mickey whaling on him. 

By the time the techs pulled Mickey off, Dan had a clearly broken nose, blood pouring down his chin. Mickey was still wrestling from the grips, trying to get at the man. 

“Who the fuck DOES that? You raised by wolves or some shit?”

“Calm down, Mickey,” the first tech tried to get his attention.

“Did you see my floor? Did you see what he did?”

“You can just mop it again tomorrow.”

“Oh fuck you. Fuck all a you. I’m out. Get me the papers, I’m walking.” Mickey finally freed himself from the tech’s hold and stalked to the entrance to the unit. 

After a few minutes Emily met him at the entryway. 

“What happened, Mickey?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened, this shit is stupid, and I want to go.”

“You know you’ll go to jail. You’re already 20 days in, you only have 10 more to go.”

“Fuck jail, fuck your 10 days, and especially fuck you.” He spat on the floor in front of her. 

Emily didn’t look upset or impressed, just stressed, “You flip out on Dan for fucking up the floors and then you spit on the floor? Way to be consistent, Mickey.”

He paused. She kinda had a point. But still…

“I want out,” he reiterated. 

“How about we go down for a smoke, and if you still want to, you can come back up and sign the AMA papers after?”

His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Unscheduled smoke breaks weren’t a thing. As far as he knew, the elevators didn’t even stop at their floor without a tech’s key. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

They rode down in silence.

As they crossed the lobby, he saw to his chagrin that the patio was occupied. By the DDs. Including the last person he wanted to see, or to let Emily see him see.

He stopped short of the door and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“You work mostly with DDs. You knew they would be out there.”

“Maybe.”

“Somethin’ you wanna say to me?”

“He’s doing really well, you know. Taking his meds, making progress.”

_ She knew. _ Of course she knew. Of course.

He scrubbed his hands over his face before finally saying, “Don’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Dan. And yeah, he kind of is.”

Mickey was shocked at the admission.

“Just stay for the last 10 days,” she said carefully. “Ten more days and then you don’t go to jail.”

He laughed ruefully. “Ten days, and then three years of fucking meetings and piss tests.”

“He’s,” She indicated Ian, “on the hook for five years of meetings and piss tests. Who knows what could happen?”

Mickey was beaten and he knew it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pretty well echoes my own rehab experience at a state-funded place.  
> As always if you or someone you know struggles with a substance use disorder, help is available through NA.org


	3. What is the NA Program? Pt 1. Chambers Street (June 16th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's first NA meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Is the Narcotics Anonymous Program?  
> NA is a nonprofit fellowship or society of men and women for whom drugs had become a major problem. We are recovering addicts who meet regularly to help each other stay clean. This is a program of complete abstinence from all drugs. There is only one requirement for membership, the desire to stop using. We suggest that you keep an open mind and give yourself a break.  
> Our program is a set of principles written so simply that we can follow them in our daily lives. The most important thing about them is that they work. There are no strings attached to NA. We are not affiliated with any other organizations. We have no initiation fees or dues, no pledges to sign, no promises to make to anyone. We are not connected with any political, religious, or law enforcement groups, and are under no surveillance at any time. Anyone may join us regardless of age, race, sexual identity, creed, religion, or lack of religion. We are not interested in what or how much you used or who your connections were, what you have done in the past, how much or how little you have, but only in what you want to do about your problem and how we can help.  
> The newcomer is the most important person at any meeting, because we can only keep what we have by giving it away. We have learned from our group experience that those who keep coming to our meetings regularly stay clean.

Mickey was released after his 30 days were up, with gentle exhortations about identifying triggers, staying away from people, places, and things (as if he could), and getting to a meeting as soon as possible. Noticing his barely suppressed eye-rolls, Emily made it a point to hand him a personalized paper meeting list, folded like some weird-ass takeout menu. 

“I’ll see you in a week at your outpatient follow-up appointment. Go to a meeting, Mickey. I highlighted the ones that you can walk to from your house. ”

  


At one point in their time together he had explained that while of course he could drive, _thank you very much_ , he didn’t exactly have a current license. Which had never stopped him from driving, obviously. But Emily seemed to care about little shit like that, and he didn’t exactly mind. 

  


No one was there to pick him up, which he totally expected, so he was handed a bus pass and escorted to the elevator. On his way out, he shot the assembled men the finger, but politely refrained from cursing them out individually. 

  


_See_ , he thought at Emily, _growth_. She smiled, she knew.

* * *

  


The first day at home was … weird, honestly. The house was the same, a fucking wreck. The mold in the bathroom had grown noticeably, and the fridge and freezer were empty. Even if the food was terrible in rehab, at least there was plenty of it at regular intervals. He briefly considered running to the Kash N Grab to steal some pringles, then deliberately pushed the thought away. 

_Straight n’ narrow. Not because I don’t want to think about I- anything. I don’t wanna think about anything._

  


It was also surprisingly boring. The police raid that had started this whole debacle had cleared out all the drugs in the place, even in the good stash spots he thought were well hidden. All the guns were gone- well, not the ones under the floorboard in his room- but nearly all. Without Mandy and Iggy home, he didn’t even know where to begin restarting any operations. 

  


Mandy had left him a short note on his bed, in her swirly cursive like a middle schooler:

  


“Hey bro, welcome home. Working. See you at 11. KISSES!”

  


He crumpled up the note and tossed it on the floor, then dropped onto his bed. It wasn’t substantively better than the one at rehab, nor was it cleaner. But at least it smelled like home, like mold and pot and cigarettes. 

  


By the time 7pm rolled around, he was getting itchy. He’d tried taking a nap, of all fucking things, jerked off to the gay magazines under the floorboard, had a shower that ended too quickly when the hot water went out, played some xBox, but the silence was getting to him. Tony and Joey were in the pen, Iggy was probably out getting laid. Mickey wasn’t sure he could stand four more hours of the empty house after the neverending noise of rehab. He’d always thought rehab would be quiet and peaceful, healing-like. It was nothing like that.

  


He pulled the scrunched up meeting list out of his back pocket and studied it. There was a 7 pm meeting at a church on Chambers Street, two blocks up. The list said it was a ‘candlelight meeting’ whatever the fuck that meant. Maybe he could slide in late, hide in the back, and get his paper signed. He rifled through the plastic bag of discharge material he’d been handed as he departed, looking for his meeting log. After he got one or two signatures, he’d be able to forge the rest, of course, but maybe getting one legit signature would be a good start.

* * *

The first thing he noticed as he strolled up casually to the church was the number of people standing outside smoking. From kids who looked 12 years old to some geezers who were probably 70, men and women, all colors and shapes. One guy was in a business suit, one woman had on fuck-me heels and a rockabilly dress. Lots of tattoos on display, and colorful hair. Also a lot of track marks, and cratered skin. As he looked more closely, careful to keep his observations covert and casual, he saw there was another thread woven through the group- people he was tempted to call hipsters. They had those giant reusable water bottles ( _probably full of vodka_ , his brain supplied), hiking boots, they all had tans and these huge weird-ass smiles. Creepy, if you asked him.

  


As if an unheard bell had rung, the entire pack started stubbing out their cigarettes and headed inside en masse. Mickey guessed the meeting was starting, but who gave a shit about being on time to an NA meeting? He lit up, and looked around. Only a very few stragglers still stood with him in the church parking lot. One skinny kid eyed Mickey up, checking to see if maybe Mickey was prey, but Mickey growled at him, and the kid backed off. He could hear some … chanting?... coming from down in the church, and he wasn’t down for that shit.

  


A last minute SUV pulled into the lot, and a slightly older, harried-looking woman stepped out, hauling a giant purse, and carrying an armful of books. She reached back into the car to grab an iced coffee, setting the books on the hood of the SUV. But she hadn’t been careful, and as she reached for the coffee, the books started to slide off the hood.

  


“Ah, fuck!”

Mickey looked around. The stragglers had all finally gone inside, or gone off to get high, more likely, and he was the only one left. Of course, the woman’s gaze fell on him then.

  


“Hey, can you help me here?” She had a clear Philadelphia accent, and seemed to think he, Mickey, was going to - what, carry her fucking books for her?

  


“C’mon asshole, I won’t tell anyone. Just help me pick these up and you can go cop.”

Mickey sighed deeply, thinking, glancing around for witnesses. All clear.

  


He strode over and snatched the books off the ground where they lay, piling them roughly.

“Thanks, I’m Pat.” the woman said brusquely. “You comin’ in?”

Mickey shrugged. 

  


She led the way down two flights of stairs half lit, then around a corner, where they walked into a dimly illuminated … basement? It was like a rec room, with old posters on the walls exhorting kids to “Choose light, choose JESUS!” and stacks of folding chairs along one wall. In the center of the room were six giant folding tables pushed together to form one unit, and around the table sat the mismatched collection of people he’d been watching outside. They were doing this weird call-and-response thing Mickey associated with his ideas of church, or summer camp.

  


“This church has a few requests, first the bathroom is down the hall on the left. Please don’t go upstairs for any reason.” The leader paused.

“DON’T DO IT!” The rest of the room chorused.

“Put your butts in the butt can, and pick up after yourselves,” Another pause.

The chorus, “YA FILTHY ANIMALS!” 

  


Mickey thought it was creepy, cult-like. He followed Pat as she walked into the kitchen and dropped the books on a table spread with material. There was also a plate of grocery store cookies, and she snagged one for herself. 

  


Mickey figured it was safe, so he grabbed two. He really was hungry. Behind him, an old-style coffee urn that looked light-years cleaner than the one at rehab gurgled, and he took a styrofoam cup and made himself a cup, then slunk back into the main room. All the seats around the table had been taken, and a second row was forming behind them, so he sat two seats down from the nearest person, nibbling his cookie. 

  


There were more reading and chanting things happening, but he ignored those in favor of staring at the people in the dim light.

  


“Are there any newcomers, or visitors from out of town who would like to be recognized? Please tell us your first name only, so we can get to know you.” Mickey could feel eyes on him in the half-light, but he heard a voice to his left speak up before the panic had time to get going.

  


“Hey, I’m Eli, I’m an addict. And um… I’m new to this meeting. I just got back after 90 days in Malibu but I already used today and -”

“-We’ll get a phone list going for you, Eli.” The chair interrupted. “And get with someone after the meeting.”

“Welcome, Eli. Keep coming back, we need you to stay, it works.” The loud chorus from nearly everyone in the room startled Mickey as he half raised his own hand.

Everyone looked at him, expectantly.

  


“Mickey.” That was enough.

  


After a pregnant pause that the group clearly expected _him_ to fill, the refrain rang out. “Welcome, Mickey. Keep coming back, we need you to stay, it works.” 

He crossed his arms tensely and waited for more, but the meeting moved on.

  


After 90 minutes of talking, talking, talking, some crying, more talking, more laughter than he had expected, and then more reading/chorusing, the lights went on. Mickey stood, stretching, then remembered his stupid meeting log he needed signed. At the front of the room, he could see a line of people, shuffling their feet, each with a similar looking paper, waiting for the woman he had helped with the books to sign each one.

  


He took the tail end of the line, trying to maintain an aura of ‘Don’t talk to me, don’t fuck with me.’

“Hi, Mickey, right?” 

A creepily-cheerful guy had snuck up and was now opening his arms, Mickey smacked his hand away.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” The rise in pitch in his voice wasn’t panic, it _was_ not.

“Ok, dude, no problem. I’m Dan, Dan A, actually, it’s good to meet you.”

Mickey didn’t respond, just raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“So this is a meeting list and -”

“-I already got one,” he blurted.

“Oh, ok, cool.” Dan paused. “They change every month though, so this one might be more up to date, and also we passed it around, so there are men’s phone numbers on the back if you-”

“- If I what... need a date?”

Dan laughed. 

“No, if you need someone to talk to. You know, the suggestions say ‘Dial ‘em, don’t file ‘em.’”

Mickey looked mystified. He didn’t know what the fuck this guy was talking about.

“Just- just take the list, and if you need anything, I’m on here.” Dan pointed out his own chicken scratched name in the list of seven or so men’s names.

“Each of us on here has at least 90 days clean, so we’ve all been where you are.”

Mickey took the list and pushed it into his pocket, turning back to the swiftly diminishing signature line, dismissing Dan.

  


“Oh, hi again, hon. Thanks for helping me earlier. So you’re on drug court?”

Pat was in the process of signing his paper.

“The fuck’s it to you?”

She eyed him, holding the signed paper. Was she going to keep it forever because he had a mouth on him?

“Relax, kid.” She breathed deeply. “Lots of us have been there. Just for today, you don’t gotta use. Here’s your paper.”

  


He snatched it, and shoved it into his rapidly filling pocket, turned on his heel, and hustled up the stairs before anyone else could try and ‘have a conversation’ with him. _Weirdos_ , he thought. _Least the cookies and coffee were decent._


	4. What is the NA Program? Pt 2. Spiritual Direction (June 30th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's first meeting is totally different than Mickey's.  
> Luckily, every meeting has autonomy except in matters affecting other groups or NA as a whole. 
> 
> Na.org

Fiona pulled into the parking lot and slid smoothly into a spot. She pointedly put the car in park and unlocked the doors before turning to face him.

“Look, sweetface, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Ian didn’t meet her eyes.

“Your counselor said you had to go to meetings and this one seems nice; look they’re sitting outside!” She gestured vaguely to a large wooden pagoda with people sitting underneath.

Ian did glance up at that, and she was right, the people under the pagoda all looked nice, They looked… normal.  _ Not like me _ . 

He made no move to exit the vehicle.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes.

“Ian, it’s 6:57. You need to get out there.”

Nothing.

“So help me god, I will pull you bodily out of this car and leave you here if I have to.”

That got a grin out of both of them, at the sheer incongruity of the threat, since Fiona never left Ian anywhere alone anymore.

He started to unfold himself, long limbs stretching, opening the door, getting out.

Before he walked over to the pagoda, he glanced back one time at Fiona. She caught his eye and gave an exaggerated smile, waving wildly like he was a kindergartener on his first day.

He shot her the bird and walked over the wooden structure.

Once he had entered the gated grounds, a short woman with even shorter hair and quirky square glasses stepped forward.

“Welcome to Spiritual Direction! I’m Liz and I’m an addict, is it ok if I hug you?”

Ian was flummoxed. He glanced over his shoulder to check that she meant him or someone else. No one else was there.

“I… I guess?” He ventured.

She approached and hugged him- Ian braced for it, holding his breath and expecting it to end quickly. Instead, she held on, squeezing him. It felt weirdly intimate, though not at all sexual. He finally ran out of oxygen and inhaled, which is when she let him go. Embarrassingly, he was fairly sure his eyes gleamed with undropped tears, which Liz kindly ignored.

“First time?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, we hug here. I’m the greeter, I hug everyone, and not those shitty shoulder-pat hugs. Real ones. I’m glad you’re here….” She paused, waiting for him to fill in his name.

“...Ian.”

“Welcome, Ian. Have a seat anywhere.” She waved a hand to the circle of wooden picnic tables, benches, and plastic lawn chairs under the massive pagoda.

“Where are you sitting?”

“I’m in the green lawn chair with the cushioned seat, see it? You can sit next to me if you want.” Liz gave him a sincere smile, then turned to greet the couple who had come up behind Ian during the exchange.

“Brian and Sara! It’s been literally hours since I last saw you- how the heck have you been?”

Ian wandered over and wedged himself into the picnic bench next to Liz’s green chair. There was a brightly colored laminated sheet of paper in front of him, but he didn’t look at it, preferring to look around at the other people in the meeting. This wasn’t at all what he had expected from an NA meeting. It was daylight out, and they were outside, and there was no one smoking or vaping. Some people held Nalgene bottles of water, or sweaty plastic cups of iced coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. If Liz hadn’t introduced herself as an addict, he really thought he might have believed he’d stumbled into a church-goer’s picnic.

Soon, an older woman with curly, dishwater brown hair and a tie-dyed tee shirt rapped her knuckles on the wooden table in front of her. 

“Hi, I’m Michelle and I’m an addict.”

“Hi, Michelle,” the assembled crowd replied.

The meeting opened with a moment of silence and then the serenity prayer, which everyone else seemed to have memorized, even if Ian didn’t and just mouthed along as best he could.

“Can someone please read ‘What is the NA Program’?”

A long silence ensued, with people looking around curiously, until Ian looked down to find that the laminated sheet in front of him had the same heading.  _ Shit _ .

“Uh, hi, I’m Ian-

“Hi, Ian!”

“-And I guess I’m an addict.”

He read the laminated sheet quickly, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. When he finished, the group chorused at him in thanks before moving on to call on someone else to read.

If you had asked Ian years later what happened at his first meeting, he wouldn’t remember the format or the topic (Round Robin Topic Discussion on Hope, actually), or most of the faces, only the few who became part of his journey later. 

But he would always remember that hug, how it felt to be held with no agenda, by someone with nowhere else to go and nothing better to do than give him the simple comfort of touch. He’d sold himself for so long, sold his body, if not his heart, and then sold his mind with chemicals, so the freely given gift of that hug was what stayed with him. It felt like coming to a home he had always wanted, caring and familiarly disordered, but in healthy and healing ways, instead of the often unhealthy or even hurtful ones in his family home.

When he got back in the car, he had a meeting list with men’s phone numbers, a signed paper for Drug Court, and some useful information. Michelle, the chair with the tie-dyed shirt, had shared about _ her wife _ . He had already felt a connection with her based on her kind energy, but their shared identity made him like her more, somehow. He kind of wished he’d gotten her phone number in lieu of all the guys, but there was always next week.

“So how’d it go, E?” Fiona inquired.

“Surprisingly well,” he shared. “I want to come back here next week.”

“I’d say that’s a total win!”

“Don’t gloat, Fi.”

“ ‘m not gloating! Can’t I be happy for you?”

He rolled his eyes as they pulled out of the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Is the Narcotics Anonymous Program?  
> NA is a nonprofit fellowship or society of men and women for whom drugs had become a major problem. We are recovering addicts who meet regularly to help each other stay clean. This is a program of complete abstinence from all drugs. There is only one requirement for membership, the desire to stop using. We suggest that you keep an open mind and give yourself a break.  
> Our program is a set of principles written so simply that we can follow them in our daily lives. The most important thing about them is that they work. There are no strings attached to NA. We are not affiliated with any other organizations. We have no initiation fees or dues, no pledges to sign, no promises to make to anyone. We are not connected with any political, religious, or law enforcement groups, and are under no surveillance at any time. Anyone may join us regardless of age, race, sexual identity, creed, religion, or lack of religion. We are not interested in what or how much you used or who your connections were, what you have done in the past, how much or how little you have, but only in what you want to do about your problem and how we can help.  
> The newcomer is the most important person at any meeting, because we can only keep what we have by giving it away. We have learned from our group experience that those who keep coming to our meetings regularly stay clean.


	5. How it Works: Step 1 Pt. 1 (Mickey) June - July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.”
> 
> This story is based partially off of my own experiences in recovery, but all people and places are mostly fictional, or at least clearly shuffled to become anonymous. Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.
> 
> That said, if I've missed explaining something super obvious, or you have a question, please do comment! Comments are moderated, so it won't post publicly.

Mickey’s first followup appointment with Emily was a few days later, in yet another anonymous beige building. He’d taken the bus, and his skin had crawled a little at the terribly skinny young woman nodding in the back row. He’d uncharacteristically chosen to stand rather than take the empty seat next to her. As if he was somehow better- he knew he wasn’t, he just felt … clean? It was fucked up, he knew. 

Once he’d checked in at the reception desk, waited the requisite three minutes (long enough to consider picking up the trashy and outdated magazines, but not long enough to get all the way into an article on KimYe’s next home decor motif), and then been escorted back to Emily’s office, he was feeling hollowed out and brittle. It felt like his life-long low tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit had become non-existant.

“Hey, Mickey, how has it been at home?”

He shrugged.

She waited.

Finally, he gave in.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?”

“What do you want me to say? They threw me a fuckin’ parade and cooked a banquet?”

“No, I want to know how you feel. Fine is a shitty word, meaningless, mostly.”

Anytime Emily cursed it caught Mickey’s attention- it felt both cool and also illicit. 

“I dunno man, it felt … underwhelming.”

She looked impressed with his word choice, he could tell.

“Underwhelming how? Did you actually _want_ a parade or a big meal?”

“Fuck no! I just thought maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so alone.”

More waiting. He could feel the weight of her expectation for him to explain like the summer humidity outside.

“Fine!” He grunted in frustration. “Mandy’s workin’ all the time, Iggy’s off with his new chick, and the house is so fuckin’ quiet I’m almost afraid to make noise. It feels... frozen? Except not cold.”

“Ok, so it’s empty and lonely and hot and boring. Got it.” She wrote some notes down on her legal pad. “Have you gotten to any meetings?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mickey dug through his pocket and pulled out the signed list; Emily took it and glanced quickly.

“There’s only one meeting on here, Mickey.”

 _Shit_. He’d meant to forge a few more signatures but had forgotten.

“So let’s give you a little more structure, ok?”

He grimaced, “Structure like- jail time?”

“No, Mickey, not jail time. I want you to stay _out_ of jail, remember? What about a 90 in 90?”

“Isn’t that a speeding ticket?”

She laughed, she always laughed at his dumbest jokes.

“It’s going to 90 meetings in 90 days. No skipping one day and then doubling up later. It’s a great way to get to know people in the recovery community, and to let them get to know you!”

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

“”You kind of just implied you were lonely, right? It’s also time to pick a sponsor and get to work on your steps.”

Mickey rubbed his face tiredly: he was so fucked.

* * *

Judging from the folded paper meeting list he’d been given at the Chambers Street meeting, there was an NA meeting at that location most nights of the week, through the start time and format fluctuated with no clear pattern. Mickey actually managed a quick nap between his appointment with Emily and the time he had to leave his house for the 8pm meeting. Who was he turning into, this person who could sleep in the middle of the day?

He followed the same basic routine, showing up at the last minute and smoking outside until everyone else had gone in, then following into the darkness and sitting as far away from everyone else as possible. Maybe he timed it wrong, because he caught a new element tonight- clean time. 

It seemed like they were counting down from longest clean time, multiples of years, to shortest. Mickey did some quick math in his head- the last time he’d used was… what, May 9th? He had to nudge someone in front of him and ask the date, July 11th. So he had sixty days. A few people had already raised their hands and collected little colored key tags, gotten applause and hugs, and said a short piece about their recovery. 

“Does anyone here have sixty days?” A tall skinny guy with a hipster beard complete with gray streaks was asking the group. 

Mickey half raised his hand. Emily would eat that shit up if he came in next week with a key tag.

“Hey, alright, come on up and get a hug!”

The tall guy had seen Mickey’s minimal effort even in the half-light of the fake candles on the tables. Of course he had. Mickey rolled his eyes, but stood up, wiping his sweaty palms dry on his thighs. He wove his way through the assorted people and chairs to the tall guy, who handed him a lime green key tag. Mickey grabbed it and turned to sit down before the guy could try anything _weird_ , but heard a follow up question over the scattered, confused applause.

“Tell us your name and how you did it?”

Mickey stopped, glared quickly at the guy, who didn’t seem the least perturbed, rubbed the back of his neck.

“Mickey. Got sent to rehab. It sucked and now I’m here.” That was more than he intended to say, definitely more than enough.

“Glad you’re here Mickey, congrats on your sixty days.” The clean time continued, with thirty days, and then the white key tag, for anyone with 24 hours or less.

* * *

After the meeting had ended, Mickey sought the line for signatures again. It was the clean-time hipster tonight. Although, as Mickey looked more closely, the guy was too old to be a hipster. He had a long ratty pony-tail down his back, and wore black and white plaid converse, but his jeans weren’t skinny, and he kept the chit-chat to a minimum. 

Once he was at the head of the line, or really, the end, since he had been the last person in the queue, he shoved his paper at the guy, who took it and looked at him quickly.

“You’re Mickey, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“I’m AJ.”

“K.” Why did the guy think Mickey cared? The guy had a wedding ring on, which didn’t mean shit, but it didn’t feel like he was hitting on him…

“You hitting on me?”

The tall guy barked out a laugh; it changed his face totally from serious to joyous.

“Nope. Just being friendly to a newcomer. That’s what we do here. Did someone do that to you?”

“What, hit on me? Fuck no.”

“Ok, cool. We don’t treat that lightly, when folks prey on newcomers.”

Mickey took this info in, digested it.

“You wanna be my sponsor?” _Where had that come from?_

AJ seemed as surprised as Mickey was.

“I don’t sponsor a lot of men these days, but if you want to work some steps, I can help you out.”

Mickey nodded, not trusting his voice. This was worse than asking ~~a chick~~ someone out on a date, which he also had little to no experience with, and certainly not without some substances to support him.

“Gimme your phone.”

Mickey instinctively pulled back, making the man sigh.

“I’m not going to steal it, I’m giving you my phone number. You’re gonna have to call me every day.”

Seeing Mickey’s skeptical look, AJ continued.

“Yeah, every day. You think you can do that?”  
“What about?” Mickey handed over his phone even as he asked the question. 

AJ knew what he’d meant, even if his words were awkward as fuck.

“Whatever. What you did today, how you feel, what you ate for breakfast.” AJ put in his number under **AJ B** and handed it back. 

“That sounds lame, to be honest.”

“It _is_ lame. And it’s going to feel stupid. But if you don’t practice calling people now when things are fine, you won’t be able to do it when your ass is on fire or the shit hits the fan.  
That actually made sense.

“I don’t hug.”

AJ nodded, “I figured that. It took me a long time to accept my first hug too. I felt like I wasn’t worth touching.”

“Nah man, it’s just too faggy for me.”

AJ stiffened slightly, and Mickey thought he’d already fucked this up.

“Listen Mickey, you can use whatever language you want with me, but as a fellowship, we take care of each other, and saying that shit to some folks won’t fly.”

“What, I’m gonna get kicked out?”

“No, we don’t do that. You're a member when you say you are. But you could miss out on some really good people to have in your corner.”

“Ok, fine. Anything else I gotta do?”

AJ grinned again, the happiness feeling a little like sunshine to Mickey’s deprived heart.

He ticked off his fingers as he spoke,

“One, get a commitment. Like making coffee or greeting people at the door with hugs-”

“-I don’t-”

“-Right, no hugs. Ok, you know how to make coffee?”  
“Sure.” 

“I’ll walk you through it tomorrow night. You have to get here 20 minutes before the meeting starts to make the coffee, then clean it up afterwards. If we run out during the meeting, you make more. If we need more coffee or cups or sugar, go buy it and bring a receipt to get reimbursed.”

“Fuckin’ complicated for coffee.”

AJ continued counting off, “Next, like I said, call me every day. You miss a day for no good reason, I’ll assume you moved on in sponsorship, no hard feelings.” He paused, waiting for Mickey to add a smart comeback, and when he didn’t, continued the list. “Third, no relationships for the first year. And we’re gonna start on your first step.”

He turned away from an open-mouthed Mickey to start picking up some books and papers.

“The fuck you mean no relationships?”

AJ sighed and turned back, handing Mickey a short stack of books to hold for some reason.

“You got a girl?” AJ arched an eyebrow at Mickey in question. When he didn’t reply, AJ added, “Or a guy? I don’t discriminate.”

“No! I don’t, I mean I’m not, I-”

“Ok, so you’re just worried about getting your dick wet, or sucked, right? Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, but for now, no adult content unless we discuss it first.”

A slow flush spread up Mickey’s neck.

“What about…?” He made an abortive hand gesture, and AJ laughed again, getting it immediately.

“Jerkin’ off’s fine, man.” He turned back to the pile of books, searching for something.

“Ah!” He added the green and gold covered book to the pile in Mickey’s arms.

“These are yours. Read ‘em.”

Mickey gawped like a fish.

“You can read, right?” AJ drawled.

“I can fuckin’ read!”

“Ok, well not everyone here comes in with those skills. So I want you to read everything through Step 1 in each of these, the Basic Text, It works, and the Step Working Guide.”

_Fucking homework?_

“Like you’ve got something better to do right now?”

The man had a point: Mickey was bored to tears right now.

“And start thinkin about a hobby.”

“A what?”

“It’s this thing you do when you have free time that makes you happy?”

“I- I know what a hobby is!” Mickey was practically growling.

“Well, you need something healthy to keep you busy. So think about it. What did you like to do before you started using?”

“When I was seven?”  
AJ didn’t even flinch.

“Sure, what did you do for fun when you were seven?”  
Mickey thought about it. He couldn’t really remember having any fun when he was seven. He remembered getting smacked a lot, and being dirty, or hungry, or both. He remembered pissing on second base, playing tee-ball.

“I, uh, I played tee-ball.”

“Cool. A lot of guys in early recovery get really into working out and fitness, that sound interesting?”

“Dunno.”

“There’s no rush on this one, think it over. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mickey.”

* * *

And they did talk. Every day. 

Well, nearly every day. Sometimes Mickey just left AJ a voicemail like, “Hey asshole. I called.” Then he hung up. 

AJ didn’t seem to mind, and eventually Mickey found out more about the guy, stuff he liked.

His sponsor was heavily into punk rock music, and he was a professional photographer. He had a wife and a kid; the wife was also in recovery, kind of, she was clean, but she didn’t go to meetings. He had an obsession with cigars and smoking them. Mickey didn’t quite see the appeal but he’d tried it once or twice at AJ’s urging. He felt like maybe he looked cool doing it, so he continued whenever AJ offered. Sometimes, Mickey just found himself listening to AJ vent about how he wanted his wife to have someone to talk to besides himself and their golden retriever. 

Sponsorship was nothing like he’d expected. Mickey had thought it would be like having another counselor, or a new father-figure ( _shudder_ ). AJ was more like an older brother, or a friend, who would happily curse him out if he slacked off on his recovery or meetings. Or if he made shitty coffee. How was Mickey supposed to have known that teaspoons and tablespoons were different when measuring out coffee grounds?

Through their conversations, Mickey had discovered a tiny bit about himself too. He could be a good listener, when he didn’t space out. He’d been doodling one time during a meeting, and AJ had commented that it looked good. Mickey stared at him doubtfully, expecting a diss to follow. But no, AJ was being honest. So Mickey decided maybe he might like to _draw_ as a hobby. 

  
  


Regardless of his adventures in coffee-ruining, AJ stuck with him. Mostly didn’t shit on him, aside from pushing him to do his reading, so he could start his stepwork.

“If you don’t do steps, you’re just coming to the world’s shittiest coffee house every night!” That one had Mickey laughing hours later because it was true- he really didn’t have any reason not to do shit. He had two years and some months more of this shit, and while he could sit back and suffer ( _hello, high school_ ) he also was starting to not hate it when people knew his name.

Or when they took a sip of coffee he’d made and immediately spit it out, cursing his name. 

So somewhere around his 75th day clean, he sat down with a half-ripped notepad and a chewed pen and started to write on his first step. He was clear on powerlessness, that was like a default in his life, all the things he had no control over. Juvie, Mandy, ~~Ian~~ , his father, the judge, rehab. He still wasn’t clear on the concept of addiction, but he could get behind the obsession and compulsion- that’s how AJ explained it. That it wasn’t about any one substance, or any substance at all. It was about how addicts never learned to manage their feelings, or have feelings, and they turned to this unhealthy cycle of thinking the next thing, the next drug, the next lay, the next run, the next dollar, would fix their internal unmanageability. 

Mickey knew internal unmanageability. But he still wasn’t introducing himself as an addict, he wasn’t sharing on the floor at meetings (because then fucking _strangers_ would know him), and he had a laundry list of reservations.

AJ had made him list them early on in their conversations.

  1. When Terry gets out of prison
  2. When I’m off drug court
  3. If I get cancer 



“Do you anticipate getting cancer, Mickey?” AJ had inquired.

“Have you seen how much I smoke, man?”

“Fair point.”

4\. If something were to happen to Mandy

That was as far as he got, and for each one he talked it through with AJ, that these were all possible, or even likely situations he would face in the future. Didn’t mean he had to fuck up today. Every day, just like in the Princess Bride, a soft romantic movie Ian had once conned him into watching by saying it had pirates and torture and duels, he told himself “I’ll mostly likely get high tomorrow.” It let him sleep well every night, knowing he had the magic escape box, but it also let him stay focused on his step writing, because tomorrow was _tomorrow_ , and he had shit to do _today_. 

AJ teased him gently, “I’ve never seen anyone take a Just for Today program quite so literally.” Mickey shrugged it off, but secretly he worried a tiny bit. What would happen to AJ when he, Mickey, fucked up or fucked off, or just gave up? Who would smoke cigars with AJ? Who would he bitch to about his business or his kid?

* * *

And so life went for weeks, just meetings, and step work, and drawing, and cleaning, because he wasn’t able to get a job right now ‘cause of Drug Court, so he was cleaning and working on their house like a ghetto wife. But damn if fixing the shower head so they had more than a piss trickle hadn’t improved his daily quality of life. 

And then suddenly he had 90 days clean. AJ remembered of course, because that shit was basically his job. (He’d put it in his calendar on his phone; Mickey had watched him in secret shock that anyone might care if he did well.) And unlike his 60 days, AJ made this big fuss that he had to go to different meetings every night that week to celebrate.

“The fuck I gotta do that for, man?” Mickey complained.

“To show the newcomer it works.” AJ replied sagely.

“Fuck the newcomer!”

“We don’t do that until the 13th step.”

Mickey’s eyes must have bugged out of his head, because AJ just laughed. “Nah, we don’t do that shit, it’s a recovery joke. Thirteenth stepping is when someone with a lot of clean time, like decades, hits on or hooks up with someone with less than a year clean. It’s a power imbalance, and it’s shitty.”

Mickey knew power imbalances. He’d been on both sides of those, didn’t want to think about that part of his life overlapping with recovery, this clean place where he hadn’t fucked anything up yet.

Which is how Mickey found himself in AJ’s SUV being driven to a new meeting on a Monday night to celebrate. Except Mickey had been running a little late when AJ picked him up (he was trying to stop the kitchen sink’s everlasting drip) and then AJ took the wrong exit, and they ended up pulling into the church lot just a few moments before the meeting began.

He got out of the SUV’s passenger side and headed over to the church door, but AJ stopped him.

“This meeting’s outdoors.” He pointed around the side of the structure, to a play area and wooden structure, under which people were seated in a loose circle. 

Mickey quickened his step to catch up to AJ who had already started hugging the greeter, some tall motherfucker, but AJ was about the same height, so Mickey didn’t get a clear view until AJ let go.

Mickey swore his heart stopped. That he was having a heart attack. A true out-of-body experience. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are Mickey's chapters SO much longer? I do not know. 
> 
> If you or someone you know thinks they have a problem with drugs, check out NA.org for help.
> 
> Also I have no lived experience with Drug Court, but I know for sure you have to take a urine screening and meet with a court appointed official on a regular basis, and get a job, and some other stuff too.   
> *Hand wave* Emily = drug court, for Mickey. Ian will have his own person, don't worry. :)


	6. How it Works: Step 1 Pt. 2 (Ian) June - July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.”
> 
> Ian's experiences.  
> Please feel free to comment if I have missed explaining anything: I am trying to balance accuracy and story telling.  
> If you or someone you know thinks they might have a drug problem, visit NA.org for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to compile a list of relevant Q and A's here.  
> 1\. What's the difference between a sponsor and someone just helping with the steps?  
> A sponsor's role to guide someone through the steps. The level of involvement can vary widely, but they're just another addict who has been there, has at least a few years clean and already done the step their sponsee is working on. They're not a therapist, a parent, a police officer, a spouse, etc. The best ones end up becoming lifelong intimate friendships, even if one or the other moves on in sponsorship (like if you move to a new state, you may get a new sponsor who you can see regularly).  
> Side note: Working the steps is a vague term I just realized people might not get- there is an entire WORKBOOK with like 80 questions per step, each of which require thorough explanations in writing. Once you write on the step, you go over it with a sponsor, then try and live with it for a whole before starting the next. After you get to 12, you go back to 1 again, forever. The steps can be applied to any maladaptive behavior, once the using of drugs isn't your primary issue.  
> 2\. I don't understand what drug court is.  
> Drug court is a prison-diversion program for non-violent offenders. Lots of states have realized that people charged with drug offenses need treatment, not prison. Drug court is like a bureaucracy's version of recovery, complete with urine screening, mandatory meeting requirements (Proven by getting a sheet signed at every meeting), and some other stuff. It's a pain in the ass, and a lot of people hate it, but it can help some people stay out of prison and get clean. Other people just give the program lip service until their term is done (usually between 2-5 years) and then walk away from recovery.  
> 3\. So are people who have been clean for years sponsors to people who have less time or does the power imbalance thing relate more to romantic relationships? Because what if they start off as sponsor/sponsored and it turns sexual or romantic?  
> It is HUGELY FROWNED on to have a sponsor / sponsee sexual or romantic relationship, so much so that most people chose a sponsor of the same sex, or at least opposite orientation. Trans issues complicate this, and in the end it's each individual's responsibility not to enter into a sponsor/sponsee relationship with someone they could develop sexual or romantic feelings towards. As a pan cis female, I've had cis and trans female sponsees, as well as gay male sponsees.
> 
> 4\. Chemsex is a primarily gay activity that combines methamphetamine drug binges and risky sex, usually for days on end. The behavior is particularly problematic because it links together sex and the drugs in the brain, and can be very difficult to work through emotionally. There's a great buzzfeed series on the topic, though it is a few years out of date. https://www.buzzfeed.com/patrickstrudwick/inside-the-dark-dangerous-world-of-chemsex  
> 5\. Service work is like volunteer work within NA. That could be as a greeter or a coffee maker, or moving up to serve at more of an administrative level. It's called service so that the people who do these activities aren't seen as better than or dictating to ayone, they serve, because the most important person is the newcomer.  
> 6\. Same step workbook throughout all of NA, though there are some homemade rogue options out there from the days before the workbook was written, but that's another issue entirely :) One workbook for all 12 steps. It's about 100 pages, with readings and stuff mixed in with questions. https://www.recoverytexas.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/The-Narcotics-Anonymous-Step-Working-Guide.pdf  
> 7\. You can get a keytag at every meeting you go to when you celebrate, so it's not uncommon for addicts to have many multiples. Once you have a sponsee, it's a nice gesture to present them with one of your keytags when they celebrate. (Chips are an AA things.) Mickey could get one at every meeting he celebrates at, so if he went to more than one meeting a day (haha) he could get quite a collection going. https://cdn3.volusion.com/nrftt.mdumn/v/vspfiles/photos/NAkt-3.jpg?v-cache=1569393917  
> 8\. Ian and Mickey's arrests and entrance to drug court and rehab were not together. They weren't using together, and I know my timeline is shitty, but Ian didn't enter rehab until a few weeks after Mickey, which is why he still looks so sick when Mickey is almost done with his 30 days. Ian legit didn't know Mickey was using heavily, arrested, in rehab, etc.

That first hug had been like a literal drug to Ian, and after a week or two of finding out how things worked at the meeting, Liz graciously yielded the commitment to him, with a few words of warning.

“You have to hug everyone.”

“Yeah, I had figured, that part out.” He rolled his eyes.

“No, I mean, it’s easy to hug the clean folks, the shiny ones, even the ones who cry. But you should try to hug _everyone_.”

He waited.

“The dirty ones. The ones who smell like feet. The ones who’re possibly high and the ones who’re _definitely_ high.”

Ian did flinch at that.

“If you don’t think you can do it, just let me know, no one will be mad at you.”

“No, I can- I think I can do it.”

“One day someone is gonna come in, someone who looks like you did when you were using. That’ll fuckin’ blow your mind, hugging someone like that.”

“Unlikely.” Ian took a hit off the vape pen he’d recently acquired, blowing out the harmless water vapor.

“Really. It’s some fucking healing to give of yourself to that person you used to be.”

Liz had at least nine years clean, and sponsored women. She had a life, with a real job, something in medicine, and a sharp wit that Ian enjoyed watching, but not being on the receiving end of. She reminded him of Fiona, in a lot of ways, a healthy Fiona. And wasn’t that a trip? Comparing this addict to Fiona and having _his sister_ come up lacking?

“I’m good. I’ve done worse for less.”

Liz nodded. “‘K. Mother fucking greeter,” and smiled.

“Mother-fucking-greeter,” he agreed.

* * *

The first of those awkward people to hug showed up his very first evening in his commitment. But it wasn’t a hygiene issue. This was more of a boundary issue.

Austin had been coming to the meeting on and off, since before Ian had shown up, but he was in and out, clean and relapsing, on this sad hamster wheel. Every relapse took him to some new low, a lower bottom. When Ian first saw him, he’d been in an up-swing: had a sponsor, spoke passionately about steps and spiritual principles during the meeting, and seemed well-liked by the people Ian was just starting to get to know.

But the week prior, Austin hadn’t been there. Everyone knew, through the recovery gossip chain, that he’d relapsed. He’d redownloaded Grindr, and hooked up with a guy for chemsex, then spiraled into shame and depression. 

One of the reasons Ian watched Austin so carefully from the corner of his eye was how similar their stories were. Austin didn’t seem to have hooked per se, but the implication was there, that he traded sex for drugs, the way Ian had.

So when Austin showed up for Ian’s first stint as greeter, Ian tried to do his job, thinking back to Liz’s comment about greeting his former self. He hugged the smaller, dark-haired man. Physically, Austin actually reminded Ian a little of his old ~~boyfriend~~ lover friend. But in affect, the two couldn’t be more different. Austin was emotional, and so open with every feeling and thought that crossed his mind that it was like sitting in front of a water slide and letting every person’s splashes smack you in the face, emotionally.

Maybe Austin had picked up on Ian’s observations. Maybe he was just glad to be alive and back in a meeting. Either way, that hug had gone seriously awry, Austin’s hands sliding first from his back to cup his neck, and then pulling Ian’s face down in what was clearly an attempt for a kiss. Ian wrenched away, shocked.

“Austin, what the fuck?”

Tears rolled down the shorter man’s face. “Sorry, I’m sorry!” He put his hands in the air like he thought he was being arrested.

Michelle, the older chairwoman of the meeting, the one with the wife, came hurrying over.

“Hey guys, what’s going on? Everything ok?”

“It’s fine,” Ian placated.

“I’m so _sorry_ ,” Austin wailed, clearly working himself up into a total meltdown.

Michelle embraced him, and looked curiously at Ian, mouthing ‘ _What happened?_ ’

Ian wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly chilly in the bright sunshine.

‘ _Nothing happened,_ ’ he mouthed back a little sullenly. Was she blaming _him_?

Liz rapped her knuckles on the wooden picnic table, starting the meeting behind them.

Michelle gave him a very dubious look that told Ian very clearly that they’d be discussing this after the meeting was over, and guided Austin over to sit in a folding chair.

Ian was sure he hadn’t heard anything during the meeting; sounds washed over him as his brain played a highlight reel of all the times he’d fucked up, or been taken advantage of, or abandoned. He thought that Austin might have still been high, maybe he’d confused Ian for a hookup. Maybe this was his way of hitting on him. Had Ian encouraged him? Had he said or done something to make Austin think…?

* * *

When the meeting closed with the Third Step Prayer, “Many of us have said, take my will and my life, guide me in my recovery, show me how to live, just for today,” Ian tried to fade into the dusk, but Fiona had taken the “Come early, stay late” mantra to heart and hadn’t been showing up until 20 minutes after the meeting had ended. Michelle didn’t even pretend to sneak up, she just finished cleaning up the tables, and walked his way, her arms full with reusable grocery bags of books.

“Hey Ian, you wanna talk about what happened?”

“Not really,” he bit out.

Michelle paused. She nodded, as if she was going to just - let it go.

“That’s fine, but if you do decide you want to debrief, can I give you my number?”

Ian pulled his hands and phone out of his pockets, “Actually I was gonna ask you about that. Before-” he waved his hand”- all that happened.”

“Let me just…” She popped the trunk of her green Outback and dropped the bags and books, before turning back to him, taking the phone and entering her number as **MICHELLE S.**

“Look, I don’t have a sponsor yet and I was thinking-” He paused, hoping she’d do the work for him, let him off the hook. 

Nope. She stared at him levely, though not unkindly.

“-I was hoping you might be willing to sponsor me?” He rushed the words out before he could give up or run away.

Michelle cocked her head to the side. “Why me, Ian?”

He considered the question, knowing her answer would depend on his.

“I like you. I’m gay, I think we have a lot in common, and I don’t want a guy as a sponsor.”

“Those are some solid reasons. I’m proud of you for telling me that.” His heart swelled a little at the praise. “But having a gay man as a sponsor might be easier for you. Have you considered one?”

Was this her way of rejecting him?

“I don’t really - I haven’t met anyone who I felt a good fit with. I know you do service and everyone respects you and I want that.”

Michelle nodded. 

“Ok.” She seemed to have reached a decision. “Let’s try it on a temporary basis, and if you meet someone who IS a better fit, then we can figure that out.”

“Ok, yes, thank you!” He was gushing, filled with relief.

“C’mere.” She drew him into a warm hug, and held him lightly until his body relaxed, then asked

“Are you ready to talk about Austin?”

“It just felt like- like someone else taking something from me that I didn’t want to give.”

“That’s very fair. Maybe you felt a little powerless?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ian scuffed his shoe on the blacktop.

She hmm’d at him thoughtfully.

“Well in that case, this is the perfect time to start on your first step. Maybe if you have a concrete list of the things you _are_ and _are not_ powerless over, you might feel a little better?”

“I feel like I’m powerless over everything,” he sighed wistfully.

“Nonsense. You chose what to wear today, didn’t you?”

“Sure, but my options were limited.”

“Limited by what or who?”

“By what was clean, what looked good, or fit or wasn’t ripped?” Ian wasn’t sure where she was going with this line of reasoning, but he was willing to follow along.

“So your options were limited by when _you_ had chosen to do laundry, or what _you_ thought looked good, or how _you_ treated your body or your belongings?”  
“I- I guess?”

She laughed then and put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh Ian, don’t worry. Just start reading and answering some of the questions, and call me tomorrow.”

* * *

**  
  
**

The next morning Ian had his first appointment with his Drug Court-appointed counselor. It had been set up so he could see someone at the same clinic he would be getting his meds from, some spiel about a cohesive care program, but what it meant was that there was always someone watching him, checking on him. It was getting more than a little smothering; sometimes Ian felt like he couldn’t breath, couldn’t cough without five people asking if he was ok, how he felt about coughing, if he had coughed before, and did coughing trigger him?

(For the record: yes, fine, obviously, and no.)

The office he was led into was nicer than he expected. It had a small desk on one corner, covered with piles of papers, folders, and books, as well as a healthy layer of dust.

The only other pieces of furniture in the room were two wingback chairs, angled slightly towards each other, and a literal jungle of small plants and succulents strategically placed in patches of sunlight. There was even one on the floor in front of the empty chair which Ian assumed was for him, the other being taken by his new counselor, Ed.

Ed was a weird name for a counselor, Ian thought. Like, why shorten it, but not go for Eddie? Edward felt distinguished, or reliable, but Ed- Ed fixed your car, maybe, or collected the trash. 

The man in question stood when Ian walked in, and offered to shake his hand. Ian accepted hesitantly. The guy was - hard to read. He was African-American, shorter than Ian, and skinny, super skinny. Like he probably was a competitive long-distance cyclist, under the striped button down shirt and khaki pants. Ian was usually able to get a feel for people quickly, or he had been, before things went south for him, as part of his job at the club, and while it wasn’t a traditional ‘gaydar,’ he usually knew in a short amount of time whether someone he’d met appreciated him aesthetically, or otherwise. But Ed was just - there. As their conversation progressed, Ian found out that Ed was a big fan of silence, and waiting.

Ian would share something, like “I got a sponsor,” and Ed would ask a follow up question that was _never_ what Ian had expected. Not something obvious, like “ _Who did you pick?_ ” or even the perennial shrink-favorite “ _How do you feel about that?_ ” Ed would ask questions like “Do you see your relationships with other people changing as a result of having a sponsor?” He never wasted time on bullshit or inconsequential stuff, but he also didn’t ask leading questions that presupposed a certain response. Ian kind of loved it? As much as it drove him nuts not to be able to pin Ed’s identity down, he also appreciated knowing someone who wasn’t easily classifiable. 

At his third appointment with Ed, Ian was probably hypo-manic. He had stayed up until 1am reading NA literature and highlighting sentences that stood out to him as particularly apt, and looking up words he thought he knew, but wanted to see for sure. He knew this wasn’t normal per se, but a lot of addicts said they had trouble sleeping in early recovery, so he just went with it, hoping his meds weren’t failing. After he had seen how late it was, he tried all his normal wind-down techniques, he listened to a mediation on YouTube, he took a hot shower and drank a cup of decaf tea. Nothing. He had still been ready to run 12 miles. So he tried to jerk off. 

He wasn’t exactly sure when he’d stopped jerking off- at some point with the crystal, orgasms without the drug had become dull and meaningless, and soon he’d found he couldn’t get off at all without the drugs. Then he’d been caught up in the scene, and hadn’t had the time or privacy to touch himself. Rehab was _not_ the place to get reacquainted with your sexuality, and when he was home, all of sudden it had been months since he’d jerked off. So he had tried to conjure up a fantasy, but the images of the last months and years of using had blurred over everything, skinny bodies, track marks, drug-fueled binges of sex, nameless strangers, just fucking, and fucked, and fucking. 

He’d stopped then, rubbing his eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, he thought about someone just running their blunt fingers through his hair, over and over, tracing their broad thumbs across his cheek bones, touching his cupid’s bow with a fingertip. His brain felt turned on, he felt the beginnings of arousal at the base of his spine. 

His dick hadn’t gotten the memo. 

_Ok, I can do this._

He increased the potency of his fantasy, thought about thick, pale thighs opening just for him, about a perfect dick, weeping pre-cum for him to lick away.

Not even a _twitch_. FUCK.

So when he came in to see Ed, he was understandably concerned. Instead of waiting for Ed’s opening sally, he threw himself into his customary chair and groaned, “Is my dick broken?” 

Secretly, he was hoping to shock some type of reaction from Ed, some clue or hint that would make it clear who he really was outside of this office, beyond their hour together once a week.

But Ed never made anything easy for him. “Why do you think your dick is broken, Ian?”

“I tried to … to uh, masturbate last night. And I - nothing happened.” The back of his neck was warm.

“In my experience,” Ian stared at Ed, trying to parse what _that_ meant, “as a professional,” Ed emphasized, since he knew Ian’s little games, “that’s not uncommon. A lot of men in your situation go back out because they can’t handle waiting out the transition.”

“Waiting it out? So this isn’t forever?”

“Nope, not forever. But if you go back out, the clock resets and you lose all your progress.”

“Just tell me my dick isn’t broken permanently.”

“Ian,” Ed said seriously, “Your dick is not broken permanently.”

They both laughed a little at that.

“However, the process of finding your dick is not going to be linear. You’re going to make progress, and then regress. Sometimes it will feel like there’s no point, and you’ll want to say fuck it. But I promise, if you can be patient, you will be able to have a normal sex life, whatever that will look like for you.”

As good as the promise sounded, Ian knew a caveat when he heard it.

“What if I don’t know what that will look like?” Ian asked quietly. 

Ed breathed in deeply then exhaled slowly.

“None of us knows what the future holds. I can’t give you a concrete answer to what your future will be. What do you want your future to look like?”

“I don’t- I want-” Ian buried his head in his hands, groaning. 

“So maybe once you know what you want, we can address whether it’s realistic to think you might get it.”

Ian moaned again, face still hidden.

“Want to talk about your first step instead?”

“Not you too! Michelle has been on my ass about that: are you two collaborating?”

“No, it’s just the normal progression for people who are successful in recovery. You get clean, get a sponsor, do a first step. So let’s talk about your identity as an addict...”

Ian whined wordlessly.

* * *

Eventually Ian got over his first-step silence and talked it out, at length. 

First he talked to Michelle, then Ed. 

Then he talked at his homegroup, for 3 weeks in a row. 

Then he shared at a virtual meeting online, at 11pm on a Thursday night. 

He buttonholed other addicts with years clean before and after every meeting, getting every possible perspective on the idea of powerlessness and how admitting defeat could lead to success.  
Finally, Michelle sat next to him at a meeting when he was about to launch into the topic with yet another old-timer. 

“Ian,”

“Oh, hey Michelle! I was just about to-”

“We know. We _all_ know. First step.” 

“Right, yeah, I’m getting some more information-”

“-Enough, Ian. It’s one thing to get other addict’s experience-”

“-I am!”

“And that’s wonderful. But now you’re stalling. The only way to do the step is to DO THE STEP.”

The old-timer discretely and gratefully stepped away, ostensibly for a fresh coffee.

“What’s the real reason for pumping the breaks here, bud?”

Ian didn’t meet her gaze.

“What if I’m not… good enough?” His voice dropped.

“Good enough for what, Ian?”

“Like- like, I’m _bad_ ,” he whispered. “I’m not smart enough, I don’t deserve to recover.”

“Oh, kiddo, that’s just not how it works. We don’t get to decide who recovers, there’s no model of the recovering addict.” She patted his hand softly.

“I know I’m an addict, that’s obvious, but what happens if I do all this stuff and it doesn’t work? I still feel messed up all the time, my emotions are all over the place, and I’m still fucked up.”

“Well you’ve got a choice, I guess. You can give up preemptively. Or you can try, knowing it might not work, or might not work the first time, or might not work the way you want. That’s something only you can decide.”

“I thought that’s what a sponsor was for?”

“Nope. We’re just here to guide you through the steps. We can’t take ‘em for you guys.”

“Well, fuck me.”

“Wrong parts, honey.” She patted his hand again, smiling.

* * *

He was hugging AJ, who he had met a previous meeting and liked well enough, even if he looked a little like an aging hipster and smelled like cigar smoke all the time. With a quick squeeze, both men let go, and Ian’s eye went back to the entryway to see if anyone else was coming for him to greet.

At first, all he saw was the profile, the dark hair that curled up in front like a wave, the sharp, slightly crooked nose, and the full lips. He knew that profile, saw it plenty of places it wasn’t, especially when he had been high, but was Mickey really here? 

_Why would Mickey be at an NA meeting?_

_Why would Mickey be at_ **_this_ ** _NA meeting?_

_Were they about to hug?_

Ian took an abortive half step towards Mickey, when he heard the chair start the meeting.

“Welcome to Spiritual Direction. Can we please open the meeting with a moment of silence followed by the serenity prayer?”

“Fuck,” Ian hissed. He looked around, then turned back to Mickey. “I’ve gotta go sit, we can talk after maybe?”

Mickey nodded slowly, like he was in a daze, and Ian hurried over to his seat next to Michelle.

Ian was sure he didn’t hear any of the preambles or readings, and the next thing he knew, another addict, Del, was doing clean time. No one raised their hand for multiple years, 18 months, one year, nine months, or six months. But at 90 days, a tentative hand was raised, a hand he recognized. ~~Tattoos he had licked.~~

“Congratulations, care to introduce yourself and tell us how you did it?”

Mickey stood and faux-casually walked to the center of the circle inside the pagoda, snatching the red keytag. Del leaned in for a hug and Mickey huffed at him, “Fuck no, man.”

Del put his hands up and stepped back.

“Uh, I’m Mickey, and I’m- I’m an addict.” He gave a tight little smile at the end, running a thumb across his lip, clearly uncomfortable with it all.

_Mickey’s an addict?_

Then Ian felt it. His dick, suddenly hot and heavy and fully erect in his jeans.

_Seriously?_ **_This_ ** _is what gets me hard now?_

_Why is my dick_ ~~_a di-_ _an assh-_~~ _why is my dick trash?_

Mickey had sat back down; Ian had missed whatever little speech he’d made and was kicking himself. He found his eyes drawn back again and again to Mickey’s face, drinking him in, then ripping his eyes away to try and focus on the reading and sharing, but then he’d hear a cough, or a shift of weight, and it was like he had super senses, he could hear every shift of Mickey’s clothing, he thought maybe he could hear Mickey’s racing heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own.

Once the meeting closed, Ian stood up and immediately looked over the crowd, searching for Mickey. No grumpy addict getting one last cup of coffee, no short Milkovich chatting about upcoming NA events or browsing through the handful of area flyers on the front table. He’d disappeared, seemingly into thin air. Which left Ian’s mind full of questions.

_Had Mickey really been here?_

_What did this mean?_

_Was he clean?_

_Was he an addict?_

_How did he get clean?_

_Did he have a sponsor?_

~~_Did he have a boyfriend?_ ~~

And of course, _Now what do I do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so Ian had a lot to say, actually.  
> From my experience, hypomania is less than full on mania of bipolar disorder, similar but not as intense and doesn't last as long and is a normal part of readjusting to meds, or getting on new meds. It doesn't mean Ian's meds aren't working.  
> Also, for the curious, a new song I'm listening to on repeat is Wildflower by The National Parks. Check it out!


	7. How it Works: Step 1 Pt. 3 (Mickey) July 15th - 20th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're still in Step 1 and Mickey still has a lot to think about.  
> “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.”
> 
> To be clear, this is canon-divergent post Season-3.

The ride home with AJ was … weird. At first Mickey was stuck in his own brain, just replaying the memories of Ian in rehab compared with the Ian of tonight, how his skin wasn’t translucent anymore, how he’d smiled, how he’d hugged AJ (the fucker), how his face had gotten this odd tightness when he saw Mickey, and that could be good or bad and-

“Hey, asshole.” AJ interrupted his internal panic-mode. “You wanna talk about anything?”

_ No, I do  _ **_not_ ** _ want to fucking talk about how you just got to hug Ian Gallagher.  _

“No.”

“Oh, ok, because it sure seems like something went down, and now you’re staring at the window like it’s got the winning lottery number engraved on it, and you just celebrated 90 days and you could actually be happy, for once, if you wanted.”

Mickey threw his head back on the car seat headrest and groaned before replying, “Dude, I don’t always want to just- just, say how I feel all the time.”

“So you’re having some feelings?”

Mickey flipped him off.

“No, seriously.” AJ glanced at him and then back to the road. “They say the best part of recovery is you get your feelings back, but the worst part is - you guessed it - you get your feelings back.”

“Never had  _ feelings  _ before all this shit.” Mickey half-mumbled.

“Sure you did. Everyone does, even if it was just wanting more, or loneliness, or whatever.”

“Don’t  _ remember  _ having feelings before, then.”

“Yeah, you probably had some painful ones and then shut them all up in a box and shoved it in some metaphorical closet somewhere and threw away the key.”

“It was under a  _ literal  _ floorboard, actually.”

“K’, well it’s called stuffing your feelings, and it doesn’t work long-term. Feelings have to be felt, or people explode.”

“I didn’t fucking explode.”

AJ just waited.

Finally the awkward silence was too much and Mickey gave an inch.

“The… the tall redhead? Kinda alien looking?”

“Yeah, the greeter, he’s new right? Liam? Gavin?”

“His name’s Ian.”

AJ shot him another glance. “You know the guy?”

“I- yeah, we- he sort of dated my sister for a while.” Mickey hoped the other man would just leave it there.

“Your sister’s ex has you this shook up? I call bullshit.”

Mickey sighed.

“We also- uh, he didn’t really date my sister, it was like a cover? She was his beard. And then me and him-” Mickey rubbed his face and turned to look out the window. “We hooked up.”  _ No need to go into the gory details, the dugouts,  _ ~~_ Terry _ ~~ _. _

“So he’s really  _ your  _ ex.”

Mickey grunted his assent.

“Is he the first person from your past that you’ve run into in the rooms? It’s weird at first, but you do get used to it, mostly.”

_ I will never get used to seeing Gallagher anywhere. _

“Nah, there was that kid in the purple hoodie last week, who owed me money from before.”

“Mickey” AJ gasped in semi-sincere horror. “Tell me you did  **not** try to collect a drug debt in an NA meeting.”

“Not in the meeting, after-like. Outside.”

__

The SUV pulled up in front of the Milkovich house and AJ turned off the engine but didn’t unlock the doors, effectively trapping Mickey.

“When you’re ready, we can talk about it, or not. It’ll probably come up in your fourth step if it’s important. But if you want to talk to someone more-” he floundered, waving a hand, “More experienced with - this stuff, we can find you someone.”

Mickey finally looked at him in confusion. “The fuck are you on about?”   
“I don’t know what’s like to be with a man, and you might want to find someone with relevant experience to discuss the issue.”

“I don’t - are you firing me as a sponsee?” Mickey’s voice rose and had a quaver at the end.

“What? No! I’m just saying this is outside my purview and we don’t deal with theoreticals here.”

“We weren’t even really together,” Mickey admitted. “Something- something really fucked up happened, and then I didn’t see him again, not really. I saw him around and then at rehab-”

“-You guys were at the same rehab?”

“Yeah, but different sections and he got in there a while after I did, I think. He’s got, like, bipolar, manic depression, right? So he wasn’t in the same group as I was, I don’t even think he knew I was there.”

“Man, Mickey, I am learning so much about you tonight.” AJ grinned, unlocking the doors, and Mickey flipped him off again, this time with both hands as he got out.

“Talk tomorrow?”

Mickey flipped him off one more time for good measure, then slammed the SUV’s heavy door, just because he knew it pissed AJ off. 

* * *

In the end, Mickey’s experience going over his first step with AJ was both easier and weirder than he expected. The writing had been hard- it was the biggest academic-adjacent project he’d ever completed. But he had so little else to do, and between Emily and AJ cajoling, encouraging, and occasionally bitching at him, it took him less time than he’d feared to finish it.

AJ had commandeered a corner table at a little coffee shop early on a Sunday morning, and just opened the step working guide up, motioning for Mickey to open his notebook and started the thing. AJ would read the question, then Mickey would read what he’d written, sometimes stumbling over his own handwriting, or smudged text, or spilled food, and then AJ might ask a followup question of his own, or relate his own experience, or more often just move to the next question in the book. 

There were a few questions that AJ wasn’t satisfied with his answers on, ones he’d answered flippantly, or in insufficient depth. It wasn’t possible to give a wrong answer per se, but it was very possible to give an incomplete one, Mickey was finding out.

“Do I treat every challenge as a personal insult?” AJ read aloud, his voice pitched to go to Mickey’s ears and no further in the cafe. “This question was written about you, Mickey, how could you possibly think that a simple ‘no’ would be enough of an answer?”

“I don’t take every question as an insult!” But Mickey could hear his voice rising in anger as he spoke, proving that he might, actually. “What- what does it mean if I do?”

“Well, it’s a shitty way to make friends,” AJ offered. “And don’t tell me you don’t need friends. Self sufficiency is a lie, we all need someone. You have Mandy, and you have me, and maybe you have that giant red-”

“Just. Stop.” Mickey gritted out. “I will admit that maybe I might  _ possibly  _ react to questions defensively, but if you’d a’ grown up with T- where I did, you would too. It’s safer.”

“It  _ was  _ safer, in the past. Now is different- Or it could be. ”

“Whatever.”

* * *

“How could I possibly not associate with people connected to my addiction? It’s my fucking family!”

“I’m suggesting that if you want to stay clean, even just for today, you might think about putting some space between yourself and active access to any drugs.”

“Whatever, man. There’s beer in my fridge every day of the week, and you don’t see me drinkin’ it.”

“Why not?”

“Eh?”

“If there’s beer in your house, why aren’t you drinking it? I would. Not now, maybe, but with 90-something days? One shitty interaction with my wife, or my kid, or with a customer and that fridge would be empty. What’s stopping you?”

“Don’t wanna go to jail.” Mickey shrugged.

“Bullshit. We both know you could overhydrate and piss clean if you timed it right. Mickey, why aren’t you drinking the beer in your fridge?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

AJ leaned back, diffusing the tension a degree.

“I believe that. And I have a theory.”

“Go on then, tell me your theory, oh wise one.”

A grin split AJ’s face, all teeth and beard and a few wrinkles.

“I think you have, like the smallest tiny flame of hope that this shit could change your life for the better. And don’t ‘whatever’ me this time. Just consider this- I wouldn’t be sponsoring you if I didn’t see it in you. Plenty of guys on Drug Court ask me to sponsor them to check off a box and give lip service. Maybe part of you’s like that, but I think, and don’t correct me if I’m wrong, here, that you want more from life. Happiness, and shit.”

Mickey’s eyes were wide and faux-sincere. 

“Did you- did you practice that speech in the mirror before you picked me up? That’s some epic level bullshitting right there.”

“Oh fuck you, Mickey.”

* * *

At the end of the sixty-five questions, many with sub questions of their own, Mickey felt wiped out, empty in a way that felt... clean. Like he’d been scrubbed down with good soap and hot water and left to dry, sitting in the sunlight. 

“That’s it?”

“Well, yes and no,” AJ vacillated.

“Do I have to write any more shit down or answer more of your dumb-ass questions about how fucked up my life was?”

AJ laughed, sipping his cold coffee and making a face. “No, Mickey, you’re good for today.”

“But?”

“But now you have to find a way to live all the stuff we talked about. Now that you know about your particular brand of denial, it’s gonna be hard to go back into it whenever it’s convenient. You’ve gotta actually work on the honesty, open mindedness, and willingness daily.”

Mickey scoffed. They both knew that those three spiritual principles continued to challenge him. 

“You’re not the worst person on the planet, and you’re not a saint either.”

“But I am the hottest piece of ass, obviously.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” AJ rolled his eyes. “So you’re going to have to face a few things.”

Mickey didn’t meet his eyes, gazing studiously into his empty paper coffee cup.

“Mickey, I really like that meeting.” AJ was fake-pleading, but Mickey knew he was a little serious too. “I want to go back. I want you to go back. So I think you need to talk to the guy.”

“What guy?”

“I know you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be, you know.”

“Well- well- he’s the dumb one!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Him and his dumb, tall face.” Mickey was muttering now.

“His face seemed like a perfectly normal face to me. Tomorrow’s Monday. I can pick you up at 6:30 and we can try again. Assuming the kid didn’t go out and use, he’ll probably still be greet-”

Mickey’s face was a mask, stiff and painful. He hadn’t thought about Ian relapsing in the six days since he’d seen him. He figured that he had all the time in the world to consider how to address or avoid or - whatever the situation. But Ian, the soft kid might have taken Mickey’s disappearance to heart, done something stupid. He grabbed AJ’s sleeve a little wildly, not even trying to downplay his concern.

“Can you - can you call him? Do you know his sponsor? Like to- just to check on him for me?”

“Hard no, bud. I’m not your relationship coach, counselor, or go-between. I don’t even know who his sponsor is.”

“But what if-” Mickey’s words trickled off; he couldn’t voice his fears.

“If anything, we’ll deal with it. You’ll get through it, clean.”

“But how do you  _ know  _ that?”

“Ah, that’s exactly the question I was hoping you’d ask!” Another of those infuriating chuckles. “Let’s talk about a higher power.”

Mickey pulled back his hand in irritation.

“Thought we were done with annoying Q&A for the day- maybe for the year.”

“I’m still working on my honesty too.”

“Fucker.”

“So you just need to start thinking about it- some people use a traditional, capital-G God-”

“-Shit, no.”

“Some people use the rooms, or the program.”

“I’ve seen some weird ass fuckers in the rooms, you sayin’ they’ll be my higher power?”

“That’s the beauty of it- you have an unlimited right to the higher power of your own choosing. Literally no one else gets a say in it, as long as it follows the three criteria.”

“I know you are dying to tell me. Go the fuck ahead.”

AJ ticked off the requirements on his fingers- that seemed to be his go-to move for organizing his thoughts.

“One, your higher power must be loving. No vengeful, hate-filled chaos gods who specifically hate you. Vengeful, hate-filled gods who love you are fine.”

Mickey nodded, playing along.

“Two,” another finger, “your higher power must be caring. Indifference isn’t useful in this context. ‘He sees every sparrow,’ and all that.”

“The fuck’s a sparrow got to do with it?”

“You know what, never mind. Third, your higher power has to be greater than yourself. So no picking a dead leaf or some shit.”

“Why do I gotta do this today?”

“You don’t. You won’t need it until step 3, but if you start thinking now, you might have a solid idea by the time it becomes important.”

“Is this when the curtain gets pulled back and you tell me I’ve really been sucked into a Jesus-freak cult?”

“Nah, some people get deep into the Bible in recovery, but NA is not about religion at all. Spiritual, not religious, right?”

Mickey nodded; he’d had a thought, one of those quick lightning strikes where an idea erupted behind his eyes fully formed.

_ Who has ever  _ _~~loved~~ _ _ liked me? _

_ Who has ever taken care of me? _

_ Who has the power to make me feel weak? _

“Not a person though, right?” He asked AJ quickly, to clarify.

“No, it’s a legitimately terrible idea to make a specific person your higher power. People will let you down every time. It’s kind of in the job description. But if you had an image, or some elements you wanted to incorporate, you could do that.”

“What’s yours?”

“Huh?”

“Your fuckin’ higher power?” Mickey put sarcastic air quotes around the term ‘higher power.’

“None of your business. All you need to know is that I have one, and it works for me.”

“Seriously, dude? All that and all you’re gonna give me is ‘none of your business’?”

“When you get to step 3 we can talk more. But for now, any answer I give you is gonna override your own ideas. Sorry.”

Mickey crumpled his empty cup up and stood up, stretching uncomfortably. They’d been sitting in the coffee shop for hours, so he dug into his pockets to leave a fair tip. AJ had bought their coffees, so Mickey figured it was the least he could do.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment with specific questions I haven't explained well, and I will add those to the notes. I apologize for that- it's a little hard.  
> 1\. Firing a sponsor/sponsee is a thing, but it's uncommon. More often, people just "move on" in sponsorship when the relationship they're in isn't working anymore. Firing is abrupt and usually traumatic for one or both parties.
> 
> If you or someone you know struggles with a substance use disorder, please visit NA.org for help.


	8. How it Works: Step 1 Part 4 (Ian) July 18th-21nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's process is his own.  
> Mickey shows up at the meeting again, with a different result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few Easter eggs in this chapter for fans of this ship.  
> Also, Ian had a TON to say and process so this chapter felt really long for me.  
> This story represents my own experience, which isn't universal. NA isn't for everyone, and everyone has a different experience. There are many paths to recovery.  
> Please DO comment if you have questions about recovery stuff, or if you want to cheer me on?
> 
> If you or someone you know has a problem with a substance, visit NA.org for help.

Late on the same Monday night, Ian was hiding from Fiona in the dead van in the yard, laying on a trashed mattress and listening to the whine of insects in the gathering darkness as he texted Michelle. The screen of the phone threw an eerie light on his face. 

Ian G (10:27 PM): So i ddnot imagine him?

Michelle S (10:29 PM): Nope, I don’t think so. I saw him get the keytag too so unless we both did?

Ian G (10:29 PM): Ur my sponsor and ur suppsd to tell me when im being crazy

Michelle S (10:30 PM): I don’t think you're being crazy Ian. 

Ian felt the thoughts, the obsession, starting. He was seeing Mickey’s blue eyes, feeling the tears just below the surface of his own mind. He couldn’t go in to Fiona like this, she’d want to sit him down and have a whole thing, but she wouldn’t understand- not any of it. Not NA, not Mickey, not what had happened to them, not the obsession and compulsion of his own thought process. Typing all that out would be too much, too hard. Everyone said this was how you built a relationship with a sponsor, you had to let them in when you were losing it. 

Ian G (10:33 PM): i felt crazy when i saw him cn i call u?

Michelle S (10:34 PM): Sure

  
  


“So what’s up?” Michelle answered on the first ring.

Ian was silent for a long moment that stretched out. He didn’t want Michelle to think he’d asked to call to listen to her breath like a creeper, though, so he asked “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m chopping up peppers.”

Ian could hear the snick-thud of a sharp knife sliding through vegetables on a cutting board.

“Oh cool. Do you want me to let you go?”

“Ian, you asked to call me. You aren’t taking me away from anything. What’s going on in your head?” 

“I just- seeing him. It was weird.”

“Was he your dealer?”

“Mickey? Nah, I mean, he got me shit, a long time ago. Bought me beer, smoked up with me sometimes. But I never paid-” 

An idea came to him. 

A _terrible_ idea.

Maybe Mickey _had_ been his dealer, way back then, except he’d taken payment in sex instead of cash. Maybe Lip had been right when he told Ian Mickey was no good, maybe he’d been wrong to imagine Mick cared about him at all, maybe he was just a walking sex toy for him, maybe Mickey had been _relieved_ ~~when Terry had~~ \- maybe that’s all he was good for. Maybe no one would ever love him for more than what he could do to their body. Maybe he wasn’t even good in bed, but he was willing, that was enough for some guys, he knew. Maybe all of his carefully crafted ego and self-worth came down to this giant tragic mistake he’d made and never even realized before-

“Ian? Ian. I can hear you spiraling from here, what gives?”

“Maybe- maybe he was my dealer? I thought we were together, like, not boyfriends or shit but something- and then his dad… but maybe he was just getting paid for the drugs and-” He broke off his words because he could hear his voice getting faster, the pitch rising to a panic-squeak. The dirty van walls looked like they were getting closer, and the roof was only inches from his face now. 

“Calm down, Ian. Just breathe for me.”

He closed his eyes and tried to breath. He focused on the sensations around him, the spring poking him in the shoulders, the humid air but he was still panting.

“Let’s try something, ok, Ian?” Michelle's voice rose from her end of the phone, her tone worried. “Say it with me.

God, grant me the serenity…”

“God,” Ian gasped, air filling his lungs fully for what felt like the first time in hours, “grant me the serenity…”

“To accept the things I cannot change…”

“To accept the things I cannot change…” _I cannot change my past. I cannot change my bipolar. I cannot change my fucked up family._

“The courage to change the things I can…”

“The courage to change the things I can…” _I can change my future. I don’t have to go back, I can go forward, to something better._

“And the wisdom to know the difference.”

“And the wisdom to know the difference.” _Can I really change myself? Who will I be if I change?_

  
  


To his surprise, he felt a little better. This certainly hadn’t been his first panic attack, and wasn’t even his first panic attack in recovery, but all his previous ones had ended up with him either getting fucked up or crying himself to sleep. So far NA had been great; he had thought, naively, that if he just did everything they suggested he’d never have another panic attack, never be broke again, never be alone again, live happily ever after on some pink cloud somewhere. Had Ed told him that, or someone at the rehab? A worker or a client? God, if he was basing his questionable life decisions on the advice of someone he’d met in rehab, he would kick his own ass. He wished he could remember.

“You still there?” Michelle’s voice broke into his unhappy reverie.

“I’m still here.”

“Let’s look at this- what evidence do you have that this guy might have been using you for sex and paying you in drugs?”

“I mean, he was always telling me to get on him, to fuck him and-”

“Did you not want to fuck him?”

Ian laughed, bitterly.

“No, it was like, the _best_ thing, back then, fucking him. Usually we just did- um, like hand stuff, or we’d blow each other- When we could find a place that was safe. His ass was like-”

“Ok, ok there. I don’t need details about this guy’s ass quite yet.” Michelle laughed, but kindly. “So would you have fucked him without the drugs and beer being involved?”

“I- yeah.” _Absolutely_. 

“Was a substance always involved when you guys were, were together?”  
Ian thought back, how the first time he and Mickey were together he felt high on adrenaline and anger, how Mickey would try to hide it but was impressed when Ian would shotgun a beer with him, how they would share cigarettes and joints all the time. But all that shit was just normal, back then; everyone did that or acted that way. And it was nothing like the last few years, the faceless men he hooked up with, high on poppers and crystal, using whatever they offered him.

“I don’t think so? Not more than anyone else I spent time with- my friends and family.”  
“Yeah, sorry kid. I don’t think you were fucking your dealer in high school. I think you just had a kinda messed-up, closeted, something-ship with this guy.”

“He couldn’t- his dad was- we didn’t have a lot of options.” Ian didn’t want Michelle judging Mickey based on his actions back then; what they had. He thought it could have been something significant, in a different time, in a different place. They could have been friends, and lovers.

Michelle made a thinking noise.

“Back then.” Ian added lamely, trying to fill the silence.

“And now we’re on the other end of the pendulum. Are you romanticising your time together?”

Ian felt his eyebrows fly up, and his jaw unlocked. He let out a sour half-laugh, “Romance is literally the last thing in the world to describe what we were doing. I don’t even think Mickey thinks- thought- thinks- I don’t know- he’s gay. We only kissed, like, three times, maybe.”

“I don’t mean roses and Kenny G romance. I mean feelings. Did you have feelings for him?”

He stopped to give himself a chance to think it through. Could he hang up on Michelle and claim his phone died? She’d just want to continue this conversation the next time they talked. _Fuck_. 

Did he have feelings for Mickey Milkovitch back then? He knew he’d had a crush on Mickey, watched him from the corner of his eyes, smiled at his gruff posturing, but he’d also thought the guy was funny, smart in ways Ian wasn’t, caring to a select list of people. Seeing him again, the ever present layer of dirt scrubbed away, his eyes clear, clean clothes, even just for that short time had brought all those feelings swirling back up. 

“I - I did.”

_I … might still._

“Then it makes sense that seeing him would stir that up again. You’re just thinking about your past feelings, reliving them a little. That’s normal,” she reassured him. 

“Bitch, you don’t know me, I’m abnormal as fuck.” The sarcasm came out of his mouth before he thought it through, and he held his breath, waiting to see if he’d offended his sponsor, but she just laughed.

“Yeah, me too, kid. But in a community of misfit toys, you’re gonna have to find some new ways to identify yourself.”

  
  


When it came to the writing of Ian’s first step, Michelle had been right. The writing wasn’t so bad once he got into a habit, answer a few questions every morning, and then a few more every night. And the ‘research’ he’d done beforehand had actually helped, but sometimes it felt like he was writing answers based on only one aspect of his life- his addiction, and ignoring how his bipolar had played a part. The two parts had been like a toxic couple, like Frank and Monica, running his life into the ground. When one would disappear for a while, the other would seem empowered, and then in his worst times, they were both there constantly, whispering shame, paranoia, and hatred in his mind.

As he finished up the final question in his composition notebook, he texted Michelle proudly.

Ian G (2:07 PM): step 1 DONE!!!!!! 💯💯💯💯

Michelle S (2:07 PM): Great job Ian! 

Ian G (2:08 PM): 🕘 now what? 

Michelle S (2:09 PM): lol Are you busy on Monday?

Ian wasn’t totally thrilled about waiting so long to go over his writing; he’d poured his heart onto the pages and wanted praise and validation, but he didn’t want to seem unwilling, so he went with a joke.

Ian G (2:10 PM): let me check my plannr. Hmm. dinner with me but i can reschdle that haha TOTALLY FREE 👀

Michelle S (2:11 PM): Ok, I’ll pick you up after work, around 4 and we can start going over it, then go to the meeting?

Ian G (2:12 PM): Start?????

Michelle S (2:14 PM): It can be a lot to go over all at once. We’ll probably need a few sessions.

Ian G (2:14 PM): oh ok

Michelle S (2:15 PM): 4ish Monday. :)

Ian worried his lower lip with his teeth. He was feeling the anxiety hamster in his stomach, running and scratching endlessly. It seemed like Michelle could sense his fretting from afar because she texted him again. 

Michelle S (2:19 PM): Did you download that meditation app I sent you?

Ian G (2:20 PM): yup

Michelle S (2:20 PM): You could try out one of the running meditations, if you wanted.

Ian G (2:21 PM): ok

Not wanting Michelle to think he was being ungrateful or ignoring her advice, he added

Ian G (2:21 PM): 👍👍👍👍👍 🏃🏃🏃🏃🏃

And then he went for a run. 

  
  


Even though she didn’t live near him, Michelle picked Ian up on Monday and drove him to Taylor Park: he hadn’t been there since he was just a kid. It wasn’t really far from his house, but it felt like a slightly different, slightly less grimy city. He could still see buildings in the distance, but there were a few full green tree tops in front of them, and unmown grass mixed with weeds and the normal debris. There was a playground full of loud kids, and moms and older siblings sitting around staring at their devices. A small pool wasn’t open for the season yet. Michelle led them over a badly-painted bench in the shade of a tree and set down her belongings: a padded cushion, a binder, her own copy of the Step Working Guide, a pencil case, and a small cooler that looked like it held snacks and drinks. 

“I feel under-prepared,” Ian joked half-seriously.

“You’re not. I come here a lot to write on my steps.”

“Wait, what?” Ian had kind of assumed Michelle was done with her steps, having decades clean.

She laughed, not unkindly. “We never stop writing on steps. After we finish twelve, we go back to one. I’ve been through the steps,” she stopped to consider, “ four times? I think.”

“Wow.” Ian didn’t know what to say; he felt like a kid who hadn’t done his homework, even though he knew his step was done and sitting in the notebook in his hands. “So… how does this all work? Do I give you my book and like- watch you read it?”

“Nope. It’s not like school. We’re both gonna pray first, silently, if you want. Then I’ll read you a question, and you’ll read me what you wrote. If there’s anything to discuss, we will.”

Ian saw immediately how the process could easily stretch over multiple sessions.

They started the process, and Ian was surprised at how easy Michelle was to talk to about these things that had him so tied up in knots emotionally. She had a good poker face, and she never seemed to be judging him or the past actions he disclosed. He was keeping a lot of the details vague, mostly about his sex work, not yet comfortable enough. She did push him on other issues though- there were a few questions where he’d conflated his bipolar and his drug use, and Michelle wasn’t having it.

“You said you were diagnosed bipolar- when, high school?”

“Yeah, around the time I would- I would have graduated.” Ian’s cheeks flamed as he referenced his dropping out. He hated that he hadn’t been able to finish his degree.

“And your first drug was pot, in middle school?”

“I mean, Frank definitely gave all of us beer as toddlers to go to sleep.”

Michelle raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, Frank’s not really the parenting-type.” Ian admitted easily. “He’s like one of the last people on earth who should have had kids, so of course he had a whole pack of us. Well, I’m not really his, but…”

Michelle was studiously taking notes, Ian realized.

“Are you… documenting my family dysfunction?” He was a little offended.

“Ian. I have four sponsees. You all have complex family-of-origin issues. If I didn’t take notes, and relied on my memory, I’d be doing you a disservice, because in three or nine months you’d try and remind me ‘Oh, remember how I told you Frank wasn’t actually my dad?’ and I’d be a crappy sponsor if I didn’t remember so- I take notes.” 

He looked at her notebook doubtfully.

“This notebook lives with _my_ stepwork.” 

Ian nodded, understanding immediately. “Mutually assured destruction, then?”

“Exactly. 

“So back on track, the issue I’m hearing is that some of what you’ve written is supposing that NA will cure your mental illness. NA won’t even cure your addiction.”

Ian’s face fell, he _had_ been thinking that very thing. “What’s the point of all this,” he gestured at the Step Working Guide and notebooks, “then?”

“We get to be in recovery. It’s like being in remission from cancer. It can always come back. Addiction and mental illness will always be a part of you. The trick is learning to get ahead of it, to see yourself coming, to recognize your patterns and act _before_ you get yourself in trouble.”

Ian rubbed his face with his hands. “Ok, I might need to think about that some more. What’s the next question?”

“What things have I done to maintain my addiction that went completely against all my beliefs and values?” Michelle read.

Ian wavered. He didn’t want to say these things out loud; it had been hard enough to put them on paper and he hadn’t even been able to look over what he’d written for this question, preferring to press on and pretend the words didn’t exist.

Michelle waited patiently for a few moments. 

“How about if I go first?” She finally suggested.

Ian gaped slightly, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Huh?”

“In my active addiction, I lied to doctors, I stole from my mother, I cheated on my partners, I let my partners have sex with me when I didn’t want to, I hurt my partner, sometimes physically.”

They sat in silence for a breath, as the wind rustled the leaves on the tree and the kids at the park yelled at each other.

“But notice what I said. Those are things that I did, not who I am. Whatever you did, Ian, is just stuff you did. It doesn’t mean you can’t be a good person.”

“But-” he stopped. 

“The stuff I did is- it’s different. Some of it’s the same but, like-” 

He took a deep breath, let it out. 

“I was the person pushing people to have sex sometimes. And there’s a lot I don’t remember, but I could guess what had happened. Based on like, physical evidence.” He was red-faced with shame, remembering the feeling of other people’s bodily fluids on his body and not knowing how they’d gotten there, bruises and red marks showing up on his skin with no memory of the pain causing them. 

“Ok,” Michelle began, “So you were engaged in sexually predatory behavior while you were using. And it sounds like you were also sexually victimized, do I have that right?”

The clinical terms helped Ian distance himself. “Yeah. And I stole, of course, lied, cheated. I don’t know if I - if I hit anyone. Probably.” He stared at the dirt under his sneakers.

“That tells me so much about you, Ian.”

_All bad._

“Not all bad.”

He narrowed his eyes at her for reading his mind, and she grinned. 

“It was written on your face, kid! When you tell me these things that you think are wrong, it tells me what you think is right, what your beliefs and values are.”

“Like what?” He still was worried this was a trick, a new way to criticize him.

She eyed him. “It sounds like consent is important to you.”

He nodded, slowly. 

“And honesty. Fairness. Kindness.”

“Yeah but if I believed in those why did I do all that shit anyway?”

“Drugs are bad.” She shrugged and laughed when he smiled too.

They didn’t finish going over his first step that afternoon, as Greeter, Ian had to get to the meeting early. But before they left, he had a date for the next time they’d go over more questions, and another hug.

  
  


At 6:54, Ian had decided Mickey wasn’t coming, probably hadn’t been there last week, obviously wasn’t in recovery, hated him, never wanted to see him again, and also, possibly, was dead. He kept busy hugging every person who came up though.

Then, the crowd of people parted, and just like that Mickey stood in front of him, again, and was he _blushing_?

“Hey, Gallagher.” Mickey nodded tightly, tipping his chin.

“Mick!” The smile that broke over Ian’s face was goofy, he knew it, but he couldn’t stop it. 

He put his hands out, beginning to initiate a hug, but before Ian had even gotten close to touching him Mickey yanked away quickly, wrenching back his body like a frightened snake.

_I should have known not to-_

“The fuck-” Mickey’s eyes darted around the room, to see who was watching them.

_He’s… scared._

No one was watching them. 

People were chatting, some other people were hugging. 

_But look where we are, Mick. No one cares._

Ian gestured expansively, looking around, indicating where they were and then turned back to face Mickey, waiting. 

Mickey’s thoughts were a mess, but he was processing. This place seemed safe, safe enough. _Maybe..._

He met Ian’s eyes, waited a beat, then moved in to close the taller man in a quiet hug. Mickey pressed close to his chest, and Ian could hear him inhaling deeply. Ian leaned down, trying to subtly do the same, catching a whiff of pure _Mickey_ , lighting off fireworks under his skin, and waves of dopamine in his brain. 

  
  


Michelle watched from her seat in the circle. She could tell that Ian had been keeping his emotions under a tight rein: he was practically vibrating with tension. The shorter man had tried to play it cool, but his lack of eye contact and frequent touching of his mouth told her enough- he’d been nervous too. 

She happened to glance over and saw AJ grinning as he watched the drama play out. It seemed like her old friend had picked up a new stray. Well, good for Mickey. You couldn’t find someone in their area more knowledgeable about NA than AJ, barring herself, of course. 

The man in question shoved his hands deep into his pockets and strolled into the circle. After a quick perusal, he settled into a seat beside her.

“So, my new kid and yours, huh?”

She kept a poker face. “Could be a hot mess.”

“Yep,” AJ agreed. “Could be.”

"Could be ok though," she offered.

"Kid deserves it."

"Think they both might."

They didn’t need to say anything else. They knew that when hope manifested into reality, lives changed. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. But change was coming.


	9. How it Works: Step 2 Part 1 (Mickey) July 22 - September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. "  
> Mickey's temper is always just below the surface, but he is starting to see changes in himself.
> 
> This story is based partially off of my own experiences in recovery, but all people and places are mostly fictional, or at least clearly shuffled to become anonymous. Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.
> 
> That said, if I've missed explaining something super obvious, or you have a question, please comment! I myself AM a secret squishy (aka a soft bitch) and comments are like ... well, not like drugs, but I like them. 
> 
> And if you, or someone you know, thinks they have a drug problem, visit NA.org for help.

On the ride home, AJ kept glancing at Mickey and it was pissing him off.

“Keep your eyes on the fucking road, man. I don’t wanna die because you have questions that ain’t gettin’ answered.”

“You wanna talk about that hugging thing?”

“Nope.” Mickey’s tone was clipped.

“You need a reminder about the ‘no relationships for the first year’ rule?”

“No, I fucking well do not!” If possible, Mickey’s posture folded in even further on itself, he was practically glued to the passenger door, as far as he could physically get from AJ and his questions.

“Ok, then. Looked like a damn good hug, though.” AJ was still sneaking looks at him, but now he was clearly trying not to laugh. “One more thing, actually. Does this mean you’re gonna hug me now?”

Mickey shot him the finger and ignored him for the rest of the ride home. 

* * *

At the end of July, AJ lost a sponsee. Mickey had known, vaguely, that AJ had two other sponsees; one, Rob, a man he’d worked with for years and years who had moved out of the area. He would sometimes get into AJ’s SUV to find AJ in his second hour of an epic phone call with Rob, who worked odd hours. But the other one, Davie, had been in and out of recovery, relapsing after 7 years clean, then after celebrating 9 months, and again after 3 years clean. For whatever reason, sustained recovery eluded him. He struggled with mental illness and had been HIV positive for over 20 years, living off of SSI with his wife in a low-income specific apartment with two gigantic dogs. 

AJ didn’t tell Mickey the whole story, but Mickey had heard Davie speak at a meeting when he’d first entered NA back in June. Davie shared his personal story, turning it into halfway between a comedy show and a trainwreck, mixing humor and trauma deftly. The guy had this huge whooping laugh that filled up a room, even if he was only laughing at his own dumb jokes.

Mickey had thought, at the time, that the guy seemed pretty fucking keen on NA, seemed like he was everyone’s best friend, knew every event and reading by heart, ‘Mr. NA,’ right there. Mickey hadn’t seen Davie around much after that first meeting, but he assumed they were on different meeting schedules or some shit, until that Saturday afternoon when AJ called him.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Yo.” Mickey had his mouth full of a tuna fish sandwich Mandy had made and saved for her dinner that night. _ Too bad, bitch. That’s what you get for eating my BBQ Pringles. _

“I wanted to talk to you before you heard it somewhere else: your sponsee-brother passed away.”

Mickey stopped chewing, his mouth suddenly too dry to swallow.

AJ took his silence for a cue to continue.

“Not Rob, Davie. He overdosed last night. His wife found him when she got home from work this morning. I- I don’t...” AJ’s voice trailed off.

Mickey cleared his throat, “Fuck, man. You wanna- do you wanna talk about that?” He didn’t really want to hear AJ talk about a dead guy, but it seemed like the thing to say.

“I don’t think so.” Mickey heard the waver in his sponsor’s voice, could sense the weakness from across the cellular signal even though they were miles apart. He had a thought.

“Uh, well, I need a meetin’. Come pick me up?”

“Tonight?” AJ questioned, “Didn’t you go to the 1pm meeting downtown?”

“Yeah, but after the meeting I had a- an urge. Big feeling. Like I wanted to go find some shit and get wasted. I need to hear some addicts tell me how ‘the steps are the solution’ and ‘it only works if I work it’, or I might still go out and use.” 

He knew it was a little low, threatening AJ that he’d use if he didn’t get driven to a meeting tonight, but hopefully AJ could hear that he wasn’t being truthful. 

Honestly, Mickey liked the look on Emily’s face every week when he passed his piss test.

“Gimme 15 minutes and I’ll get you.”

“Thanks, AJ.” 

_ Had he ever thanked the man before? The guy was spending hours of his life, almost every single day, with him, and had Mickey even bought him a cup of coffee? Was Mickey so selfish that he drained everyone around him until they had nothing good left to give? _

A long pause on the other end of the phone, and then, “You’re welcome, Mickey.”

* * *

On a random Wednesday, Mickey texted AJ. It was a dumb question, really, he knew the answer. But he still felt the need to ask.

Mickey M (3:15 PM):  What’s this shit about ‘Step 2 is a process not an event’?

AJ B (3:16 PM):  It’s hard to explain by text

_ Of course he’s blowing me off, I’m fucking annoying as shit with this stuff lately. _

Mickey M (3:16 PM):  Fine. I’ll fucking figure it out myself.

  
  


No sooner had he hit the SEND button than his phone was ringing. 

Mickey stared at the thing in mild confusion and alarm. 

**AJ B** showed on the caller ID.

Mickey hit accept but held the phone a few inches from his face without saying anything.

“Hey, Mickey.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know that I can type?” AJ’s tone was conversational, but Mickey was instantly suspicious.

“I- huh?” Mickey was lost, still worked up and now confused.

“On my phone. I can think up words, and then type them out, and send them to you.”

“That’s called texting, asshole.”

“Yeah, texting. But texting sucks, because I can’t hear if you’re  _ actually  _ pissed or if you understood that I was in the process of calling you to explain the answer. And I think you were legitimately pissed, which makes no fucking sense whatsoever.”

“I thought-” Mickey rubbed his face in frustration, “-that you were too busy or some shit.”

“Yo, bro, I know you think I’m old and lame but I do know how to text and call, and even work the REJECT CALL button when I’m actually busy. If I didn’t have time to answer I would have said so. Please let me decide my own life, instead of blowing up next time.”

“Next time?”

“You think this is the only time you’re gonna misunderstand shit and get mad?” AJ’s laugh wasn’t mean-spirited but it still made Mickey feel about three inches tall. “My first year of recovery, I fired the same sponsor about 12 times, at least once a month. He’d do shit that I didn’t like, like ask me to explain  _ why  _ I was mad at someone in a meeting, and I’d fire him, sometimes in the middle of the same fucking meeting, and then two days later I’d be blowing up his phone begging for help because I didn’t think I could stay clean without him.”

“Wasn’t gonna fire you.” Mickey muttered. 

_ I maybe was gonna never answer your calls or texts again and start going to the other fellowship though. _

“Ok, so we’re cool? Cause you asked a good question, a sharp one, and I wanna talk about it.”

Mickey reminded himself that Terry never said shit like that, that Mickey asked good questions. More often than not, asking questions of Terry was a good way to get punched. 

“Uh- yeah. Please.” The politeness felt out of place in his mouth, but it was the best he could do. 

“So Step 2 says we came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity, right? It doesn’t say ‘we believe’ or ‘we believed’ or even ‘we decided.’ So Step 2 is about slowly accepting-”

“-More fucking acceptance?”

“Yeah, you’re starting to see the patterns here.” AJ was smiling, Mickey could tell from his tone of voice, like he thought Mickey’s thoughts on the subject meant something. “-about slowly accepting that there is a power greater than us, but a positive one. Right, because we’ve turned our lives over to destructive powers greater than ourselves many times before.”

“I have? I mean- I did?”

“The judicial system is not about loving and caring. Drugs don’t want you to be the best version of yourself; they want you to suffer as long as possible and then die. Whether you meant to or not, you turned your life over to them in the past.”

“Ok, I kinda see that.” Mickey was thinking about Terry, about having turned his will and his life over to his father, time and again, and getting shit on for it, never being good enough, no matter how hard he tried.

“So once you accept that there  _ is  _ a loving and caring power greater than yourself, it’s this huge act of courage to try trusting it. It’s not a one-and-done thing. You test the waters, try it out on little stuff first. And step 2 just asks you to think about that power having the power to restore you to sanity. ‘Cause we’re all a little insane here, right?”

“You all might be, I sure as shit ain’t.” Mickey was just posturing, they both knew that.

“Sure, kid. And even if you do all that, it  _ still  _ isn’t guaranteed. A power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.  _ Could _ . No promises.”

“What’s this restoration shit about, though? Like, I get that I’m an addict, or whatever, but the idea of insanity, and restoration isn’t making sense yet.”

“I have an analogy. You’re gonna love this!” AJ even sounded excited.

“Lay it on me.” Mickey made his voice extra flat and disinterested, even though he was curious. 

“Ok so, two cars come off the production line- nice cars, upscale models, pricey. Maybe it’s convertibles. One goes to a normal guy for his daily driver in all kinds of weather. He doesn’t always have the cash to do the recommended maintenance, but he does his best. Shit happens, he sells the car. The next person is a reckless kid, gets in a few accidents, never changes the fucking oil. It ends up at a used car lot.”

“Am I the car in this scenario?”

“We’re all the car in this scenario, Mickey.”

“The other car went to a collector who put it in a garage and drove it a few times a year. Something wild goes down, and the car gets destroyed, so he’s looking to replace it. He finds the first car, the one that’s in the used car lot and brings it home. He takes the time to fix it up, gets the body work done right, all that stuff.”

“This story sucks ass, dude.”

“Humor me. So you’re the daily driver car. You were born with potential, and you did your best in the circumstances you were in. But you didn’t always get the care and attention you needed to have a long, healthy life. Your higher power is the guy with all the cash to throw at you to fix you up.”

“Huh.” That… kind of made sense, actually. “So all the shit that happened, still happened. My carfax ain’t never gonna be clean, man, but the car can be more than a piece of shit, now.”

“Totally. You can be more than a piece of shit.”

As always, Mickey needed to think about that one for a few days after the phone call. What would his life look like if he wasn’t a broken-down shitbox of a person?

* * *

Every Monday night was a repeat performance of The Hug Situation. It was basically the best part of the week for Mickey, but it was also the worst. Because he and Gallagher never talked about shit. They would hug, this soft fucking hug that made he want to live in that moment forever, and then they went and sat in the meeting, not even  _ next to each other _ most nights, listened to people share or complain or cry, drank the questionable coffee, and went home. Separately. And then Mickey would jerk off all week to whatever sensory details he could hold from his weekly hug-session. 

It drove Mickey a little insane, frankly, when he realized it was literally Gallagher’s job to hug every mother-fucker who walked up, until he observed that the hugs Ian gave everyone else were nothing like the way he held Mickey. Gallagher didn’t bend down and low-key  _ smell  _ anyone else. He didn’t close his eyes, or exhale like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. His hand didn’t cup the back of anyone else’s neck with that giant freckled mitt he called a hand.

Of course, if he  _ had  _ done any of those things to someone else, Mickey would totally have ripped his arms off right there in the church yard. Because Mickey was watching. He watched Gallagher before, during, and after the meeting. He finally understood why someone would possibly want to come early and stay late to these things. He seriously considered whether he was getting drunk on looking at Ian Gallagher. 

But then he’d leave, and AJ would ask again.

“You wanna talk about this thing yet?”

“Hell, no.”

“No foreplay in the meeting. Unless- is hugging your kink? Are you a secret squishy?”

“What the fuck is a squishy? And no. Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch.”

“Who said anything about being a bitch? Hugging is nice. Hugging tall redheads works for me, though I usually like them with slightly fewer Y-chromosomes. Usually.” AJ waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“The fuck are you hintin at?” Mickey’s temper flared, the panic-anger mix flooding his chest and throat with acid.

“Dude, it’s fine. It’s all… fine. No need to plan my immediate demise for suggesting you like dick.”

“Fuck you.” He meant it to come out growling, like a threat, but his voice was thin.

“Not as much as you like hugging though, apparently.”

Mickey punched him on the shoulder. Lightly though, so AJ would know he didn’t mean it.

  
  


And he’d tell himself, on those ridiculous car rides home where AJ’s eye crinkles of good cheer were on full display but at least his mouth was finally shut, Mickey would tell himself that next week he’d say something. He’d say something good to Gallagher. Before they even hugged he’d walk up and say something really smart, and the kid (ok, he wasn’t a kid anymore, Mickey knew that) the kid would look impressed and  _ then  _ he would hug Mickey, like a reward for being smart, not just because he showed up like every other jerk-off in recovery in the same 7 mile radius. 

But when he was actually standing there, whatever good shit he’d had planned just vanished and all he could think about was getting in Gallagher’s arms. And after he’d feel soft and stupid, and they’d rinse and repeat until the next week. 

It couldn’t last forever, obviously. AJ kept giving him hints about “What does insanity mean to you, Mickey?” and while Mickey knew he wasn’t explicitly talking about The Hug Situation, it still felt like maybe he was criticizing. Shades of Terry and all that. Mickey never said he hadn’t gotten a little warped, didn’t carry a little trauma from that piece of shit. But he tried to remind himself that AJ had never been cruel, or tried to ditch him, or made him take consequences for things he didn’t do. Obviously AJ never hit him, or left him places with no way to get home. But the instinct to distrust the older man was slow to fade, especially around every aspect of Gallagher and The Hug Situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sponsor is the person with the clean time and experience, sponsee is the person who they guide.  
> 2\. Mr. NA is a slang term for someone who acts like an expert on all things recovery-related. It's not a very nice thing to call someone, but it's not a slur.  
> 3\. Generally a sponsor will have between 1-5 sponsees at a time. If all the sponsees are working steps and active in recovery, that's a lot.  
> 4\. Sponsee-brother is someone who was the same sponsor as you. On that note, since EVERYONE has a sponsor, your sponsor's sponsor is called your Grand-sponsor. (It is a terrible idea to get a sponsor who does NOT have a sponsor or continue working steps.)  
> 5\. "Firing a sponsor/sponsee" is like breaking up with a significant other suddenly, sometimes publicly. "Moving on in sponsorship" is like conscious un-coupling, where you both agree that another sponsor would better suit someone's needs, without any hard feelings.  
> 6\. "The other fellowship" is how most NA members refer to AA. AA is the predecessor, or obnoxious older brother of NA. The big variance between the two programs is that NA considers alcohol a drug, and members cannot consume drugs in any form. So people in NA don't identify as 'addicts and alcoholics,' just as addicts, as an all-inclusive term, focused on the disease and not the substance.


	10. How it Works: Step 2 Part 2 (Ian) July 22- September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity."
> 
> Ian is trying to imagine sanity. It's harder than he expected.
> 
> And if you, or someone you know, thinks they have a drug problem, visit NA.org for help.
> 
> Please feel free to comment if I have missed any explanations in the notes!

By August, Ian was pretty sure he was in hell. Or possibly purgatory. Some place where he was supposed to be improving himself before he could move on to heaven, all the while being tempted to do the wrong things. 

Wrong thing. 

_Wrong person_.

It would have been less weird if they had talked about it, or talked, at all, really. But the most he heard out of Mickey’s mouth was when he read one of the preambles at the meeting. Mickey never shared in front of him, and Ian wasn’t sure why. He knew why _he_ wasn’t ready to share all his deepest, darkest drama in front of his- well, his _something_. But what was Mickey afraid of sharing?

Ian was afraid constantly: afraid that as soon as Mickey found out he’d been tricking, sharing needles, living dirty, that his dick was an inconsistent bitch, the weekly ritual would end. Mickey wouldn’t be able to look at him, let alone touch him, he worried. But he wasn’t ready to voice his fears- this uncomfortable status quo of not knowing and not moving forward was better than losing everything, which of course he feared too. Losing this delicate small _thing_ they had between them was scarier than even the potential for more, so he stayed locked in fear. 

Michelle had told him that at their hearts, most addicts acted from fear. Even anger was a form of disguised fear, she’d explained. It made sense to Ian. He had lived a life of fear, fear of his own mind, fear of the future, fear of what he couldn’t remember clearly. Anger was something he’d used to mask his fear; if he was mad at the world for being homophobic, he didn’t have to face his fear of rejection. Before he was using, he had all this fear with Lip as an older brother, that he wouldn’t be as smart, as handsome, as well spoken. The military had promised to turn nearly anybody into somebody worthy of respect, and that had appealed to him, before his bipolar had manifested. Then when he was using, the fear of what he done the night before, what he would have to do to get more, where he would find his next meal- 

Now his fear of losing what little he had with Mickey was keeping him from doing- anything. He was stuck in a holding pattern where he went through the motions every day and then came alive for an hour on Monday night, when he could drink in Mickey with his eyes. The only time he could get his dick to cooperate (despite his varied and creative efforts) and he could never take advantage of it, always having to sit in the meeting for the next hour.

He’d gone round and round the issue with Michelle. She agreed that the status quo wasn’t great, but said he needed to talk to Mickey about it. 

_Talk_. 

To _Mickey_.

Even when they were kids, they hadn’t done much talking, and that was with various lubricants, social and otherwise, to help. Was he supposed to show up with pizza rolls and a kung fu movie, and ask Mickey to define their ~~relationshi~~ \- their whatever?

_Did you have feelings for me, back then?_

_Do you still have feelings for me?_

~~_Do you still talk to your dad?_ ~~

_Do you want to go on a date?_

The problem with _knowing_ that he was living in fear was that meant he couldn’t live there indefinitely. It just wasn’t sustainable. 

Not if he wanted to stay clean.

And he was starting to want that: the idea of having a clean life was looking less impossible and just really fucking hard. 

* * *

“What do you have hope about today?” How was he supposed to answer that? 

It was the very first question on the Second Step and Ian had already been stuck. He’d skipped it and answered other questions he felt were easier, more direct.

He was sitting in the van again; he’d been to a meeting that night with Michelle and was too keyed up to go to sleep. The sun had set and the heat of day had bled away leaving a cool mist in the yard. The house was full of Fiona’s new boyfriend, Debbie’s friends sleeping over, Liam had a summer cold and was whimpering and snuffling nonstop. Ian felt like he couldn’t even think in the house, it was so loud.

Well, he didn’t want to live with his siblings for the rest of life. But would he ever have a future somewhere else? What would that _look_ like?

He started a list in his notebook.

Things I have hope for: 

1\. I hope to be self-supporting

2\. I hope to have my own place

_Or just not have to share a bedroom_

3\. I hope I can get a job

_One where I don’t have to sleep with my boss or customers, or even flirt. Just someplace I can go to work and no one is looking at me like I'm food._

4\. I hope to get a gym membership

5\. I hope to be stable with my mental health

6\. I hope to have healthy love in my life

_Someone who isn’t afraid to kiss me in public, and not just because we’re fucking. Someone who will kiss me just because they care._

He stopped there. What else did people have in their lives? Jobs, places to live, maybe love, stability. The idea of being a civilian, just a normal citizen, living in a house and going to a job every day seemed foreign and unattainable. Michelle seemed to have a life like that, but he wasn’t sure. How could you still be an addict, in recovery, and find a new normal? How did she even spend her time?

Michelle has: 

1\. A job in a corporation. With benefits and a pension.

_But she has a degree and I don’t even have a GED._

He went back and added #7 to his list. ‘I hope to get a GED. And maybe an associates degree.’

2\. Her own house, with a mortgage that she pays every month.

3\. (See #1)

He wasn’t certain what Michelle did for exercise, but he knew that on really nice weekends, she and her wife drove out to the lake with their kayaks.

4\. A healthy form of recreation (kayak)

5\. Takes her antidepressants every day

One time, he’d complained to Michelle about having to take daily meds and she shared that she took an antidepressant. They’d discussed the joys of better living through science, and how hard it had been to accept that they would need to do so every day, pretty much until they died.

6\. A wife.

Ian wasn’t like, _positive_ Michelle’s love life was a happy one, but then again he couldn’t imagine kayaking with someone you didn’t _really_ like. Seemed too easy to get drowned. Plus Michelle had this special smile she only used when she was talking about, to, or texting with her wife, like the rest of the world didn’t exist and there was only Janey.

Maybe this list was what sanity would look like for him. He’d had no issue admitting his own insanity, beyond even his bipolar. The stuff he’d done, or let be done to him, just for a drug, looking back it made him fill with shame and sadness. Because who was to say he wouldn’t just end up back there again? All the writing, and talking, and listening, ~~and hugging~~ , in the world wasn’t a guarantee that he would stay clean. This was usually when Michelle would gently remind him to focus on today, and let the future sort itself out. ‘That’s a problem for Future Ian to solve.’

He looked at his two lists again. He couldn’t get a job right now, because _thanks_ , Drug Court, so moving out was not on the table, probably not a gym membership either. And the whole ‘no relationships in the first year’ thing was still a rule, probably for a good reason, he reflected. But he needed to do _something_ productive to fill his time.

Ian G (10:53 PM): Michelle u up❓❔❓

Michelle S. (10:54 PM): Just for a few more minutes, what’s up?

Ian G (10:55 PM): what cn i do in my free time??? did sum stepwrk already so dnt say that 😏

Michelle S. (10:56 PM): I like cookies. Can you bake?

Ian G (10:56 PM): i cn buy 🍪🍪🍪🍪

Michelle S. (10:57 PM): lol That defeats the purpose. Can you sing? Paint? Read?

Ian G (10:58 PM): cant carry tune, paint BAD n read slow 💔

Michelle S. (10:59 PM): Looks like baking is it for you, kid. Bed now, if you’re ok?

Ian G (11:00 PM): im vry ok but nt HIGH cuz i know what you r thinkin 😏

Michelle S. (11:01 PM): lol ok goodnight Ian! 👍

He knew the final emoji meant she still liked him even when he asked annoying questions. Only a few other people had ever just let him talk and not eventually tried to shut him up, with food, or threats, or sex. It meant a lot to have that acceptance from someone just because he was a drug addict. It was like his worst flaw was also the one that made him redeemable, somehow? That was another Future Ian issue to think about.

The question right now was, did Fiona have enough in the squirrel fund for cookie supplies. What went into cookies? Flour and chocolate chips and eggs? How hard could it be?

* * *

It was actually hard to make cookies, he found out.

The first issue was that chocolate chip cookies (because plain cookies weren’t really cookies, in Ian’s estimation) had like, ten different ingredients and as many steps. He couldn’t just mix all the shit together in a big bowl and then bake them, but he did his best. They didn’t have regular or brown sugar at Kash’N’Grab, just powdered sugar, so he used that.

And of course, walking out of the Kash'N'Grab he bumped into Mickey.

"Hey wa-" the words died in his mouth.

They just stared at each other, the moment dragging out, while Ian's brain struggled to come up with words, sentences, conversation.

"Areyougoingtothedance?"

"What's that, mumbles?"

Ian grinned at the old refrain, "I asked if you were going to the Halloween thing."

"The dance-thing?" Mickey's tone was nonchalant but Ian saw that his ears were pink. _Why?_

"Yeah, the dance. Will I see you there?"

"I guess."

"Ok. I guess I'll see you there."

Mickey turned and walked away with a half wave, leaving Ian to release a breath. 

_Guess I'll see Mickey... at the dance._

He grinned and went home to make the cookies.

* * *

Then, he made some kind of mistake with the baking soda and baking powder, which were not the same thing, who knew? And he _might_ have been guessing with all his measurements because who the fuck had a tablespoon measure on hand at home? He used coffee mugs to measure cups, and a spoon to measure, well, teaspoons.

They had had measuring spoons once; Fiona swore up and down. She’d picked them up at a Goodwill sale when she was a teen, wanting to make a nice holiday meal for the family. But then Carl, just a toddler, had managed to set one on fire by throwing it in the over when her back was turned, and Frank had absconded with a couple as drug paraphernalia, and ever since they’d just done without. The Gallagher way.

Other than that, he totally followed the recipe. 

Except the Gallagher oven dial had been so well-used that the temperature setting had worn mostly off. So 375 degrees become 300-something? Three quarters of the way between 300 and 400. Close enough, right?

It was not close enough. The cookies came out raw in the middle and burned on the edges. Fiona couldn’t explain how that was even possible. Carl had grabbed one anyway, as soon as it came out of the oven, and shoved it into his mouth. 

Then he spit it out, and puked a little, gagging into the trash can. 

“What the heck, aren’t they any good?” Ian asked anxiously, watching Carl’s back heave dramatically.

“Uh…” Carl glanced as Fiona, who kept her face studiously neutral.

She grabbed one and blew on it, before taking a cautious bite.

“S’...” she coughed a little before she swallowed deliberately. “Not that bad.” and smiled, too brightly. “They’re a little chewier than I expected.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Ian started scraping the remaining cookies off the tray angrily. Carl headed out the door, sensing drama starting.

“I’m not lyin’! They’re not _that_ bad.”

“I’m not good at a lot of things but I am really good at lying. So don’t fucking lie to me, Fiona.” Ian tossed the cookies in the trash, and the tray got dumped loudly into the sink to be scrubbed.   
“The cookies aren’t good, it’s fine. I thought if anyone would tell me the truth, it’d be you.” Ian was shocked to feel tears starting.

“Oh, sweetface,” Fiona leaned in and hugged him as he stood there, arms down, tears beginning to run down his face. “There’s lyin’ to hurt people and then there’s lyin’ to make ‘em feel better. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I want you to feel good about all the stuff you’ve been doin, the meetings, and the counseling.”

“And the baking?” His voice was thick with sadness, and muffled in her flannel-clad shoulder.

“Well, yeah. I think it’s really nice that you want to make cookies for us.”

“It’s funny, lying. I got so good because I lied to everyone about everything for so long.”

“Everyone? Even us?” Fiona’s worried-face was back, all pinched between the eyebrows.

“Before I came out to Lip, I knew. So I was lying about that for as long as I could remember. But I always figured, as long as I’m telling one person the truth, the lies to everyone else didn’t matter.”

“Is that still true? Are you tellin’ the truth to one person and lying to everyone else?”

“I don’t- maybe? I don’t think so, and I don’t mean to. It’s like a habit, to say everything’s fine, the cookies are fine, my mood is fine, even when I feel like shit.”

Fiona squeezed him tighter. “You’ll figure it out. And you can just make us cookies anytime you want to.”

“They’re not for you guys.”

“What?” Fiona pulled back, staring him in the face. 

“They’re for my sponsor. She said she liked cookies, so I figured if I made cookies, good ones, she’d be, like, happy. It’s dumb.” He ducked his head.

“Ok, so we can buy her a box of stupid cookies.”

“I already tried saying that, she said I should try baking, like to stay busy.”

Fiona nodded, solemnly. “Well, we’ve got plenty of stuff left. Let’s try again, ok? I’ll help this time. They’ve got to be better if we both try, right?”

The next batch was worse, if anything. One of them, Ian swore it was Fiona, who in turn said it had to have been Ian, had mixed up the sugar and the salt. The final product was inedible by all parties, and they gave up for the night, though not forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Preambles - the readings before the meeting, like Who Is An Addict, Why Are We Here, How It Works, etc.  
> 2\. "Living dirty' is the opposite of living clean. It can mean using drugs, or just being a shady immoral person.  
> 3\. Civilian or Citizen - a non addict, someone who can use substances appropriately.


	11. How it Works: Step 2 Part 3 (Mickey & Ian) October 31st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween, and the boys are at a dance. In costumes. What could go wrong?  
> We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.  
> BIG DEPARTURE BECAUSE THIS IS A SPLIT PERSPECTIVE CHAPTER  
> Speed of chapter posting may continue to be slower bc the chapters are getting longer.
> 
> If you or someone you know has a problem with drugs, visit NA.org for help.  
> Recovery is possible.
> 
> Comments are my new drug of choice. (That's a joke, kids. But I do love them.)

Halloween and addicts was always going to be a natural fit. Something about the licit sugar high, the costumes, the dark and creepy decorations without the risks and danger of real darkness or true evil. In Mickey and Ian’s new area, there was traditionally a Halloween dance for addicts, plus some other activities that night. The goal was to learn how to have fun without using drugs, or for the first time at all.

* * *

**_Mickey’s house…_ **

Which is how Mickey found himself on his porch waiting for AJ to pick him up for the Halloween Dance. And damn, didn’t Mandy think that shit was hi-larious. 

“Oh, is your boyfriend running late, princess?”

“Fuck you, Mands,” he said without rancor. “He’s my sponsor, not my boyfriend. He’s married. And straight.” _Mostly_. 

“You’re not even dressed up, what’s that about?” 

Mickey thought he was dressed up just fine. His jeans were clean and his shirt had buttons, but he still scoffed. “Don’t need to dress up for fuckin’ addicts.”

AJ’s SUV swung up smoothly and the passenger window rolled down. 

“They won’t let you in without a costume,” AJ called through the open window.

_Well, shit._

“Thought they said ‘no addict turned away?’” Mickey called back, hopping down over the broken porch step. 

AJ had shut off the engine and walked around the car. 

“Oh, that’s only for the money. Anyone can come in, even if they’re broke. We take dress-up and having fun very seriously in this fellowship. Plus, if you show up without a costume, they’ll choose one for you from the bucket of donated costumes. Mickey, my friend, you do NOT want the bucket.” AJ shook his head in mock-sadness.

“Wait, I have something in my room!” Mandy dashed back inside and Mickey could hear her tearing through the house. 

He stared at AJ pointedly, “This is going to be terrible, you know.” 

“Maybe for you. It’s gonna be awesome for me!”

Mandy reappeared on the porch and ran down the steps to stand next to Mickey, her hands full, the energy bouncing off of her.

“Stand still.” She appraised Mickey quickly, “And close your eyes.”  
He pled with AJ nonverbally, but seeing no assistance, he gave in, and closed his eyes.

“What- is that a fucking _collar_? Mandy, why do you have a collar in your room?”

He could feel her fastening - something- around his neck, and the something jingled ominously.

Then something tight slid over his crown, a headband? And cold fingers brushed something tacky onto his face. 

Mickey curled his hands into fists but he held still. If he looked dumb he could just stay home.

_But what about-_

“Done!” Mandy proclaimed proudly.

“Looks like a real costume,” AJ confirmed.

“I need a mirror,” he grumbled.

“We’re already late, just look in the visor in the car.” AJ gripped Mickey by the arm and half-threw him in the car before he really had a chance to process or protest. 

“Bye, Mickey, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Mandy waved as they pulled away.

Mickey flipped down the visor, steeling himself.

He was a … dog? The collar was dark mahogany leather and had a silver tag, that had been the jingling he’d heard and felt. On his head was a headband with a pair of folded over, black and white spotted dog’s ears. Mandy’s finishing touch had been a dark mark on the tip of his nose. 

AJ was glancing at him, waiting for his reaction.

“I look fucking stupid.”

“You don’t, actually. You look like you tried. Not the same.”

“Whatever, man.” Mickey laid his head on the passenger door window, in his now usual ‘I’m ignoring you’ pose. But he was careful not to smudge the makeup off his nose.

* * *

**_A few streets over…_ **

“Ian. You cannot go to the dance wearing that.”

“Why not, Fi? Don’t I look good?” Ian shook his ass a little at her, just a jiggle, really. 

“Sure, sweetheart, but I don’t think the goal tonight is to get arrested for solicitation.” She was ignoring his ass and thinking about his feelings. 

Ian pouted at her, his hands on the hips of his shiny gold shorts. His very _short_ gold shorts.

“Won’t you be cold, Ian? Doesn’t the cold cause ‘shrinkage’?” Debbie made air quotes with her hands as she inspected him from behind.

“Well, what else can I wear? This is the only idea I had.”

“What about this?” Debbie dug into a drawer and pulled out Ian’s old camo pants. “You could just wear a tee shirt with this, and some boots, it would look good.” She looked to Ian for approval.

“Hey, good idea Debs.” He smiled at her, reaching out to tousle her hair. “I just need a tight tee, maybe one of Carl’s?”

“Here.” Fiona threw a white tee shirt at him and he caught it reflexively. “This one smelled clean.”

Debbie wandered off to her own room, and Fiona sat on the bed with her serious ‘we need to talk’ face on.

Ian sighed as he kicked the gold shorts to the back of the closet and pulled up the camo pants.

“What’s wrong, Fi?”

“Nothin’s wrong. You’re doing real good. It’s just…”

He faced her as he struggled into the tee shirt. It was tight, but that was making his slowly rebuilding physique look better than it really was.

“Just…” he prompted.

“You know you have value, right?”

“You mean values? I know, I’m learning all about spiritual principles.” He laughed.

“No, Ian, like value, as a person. Beyond all this.” She gestured up and down at his body. “Your heart and your mind. Ugh, I’m bad at this, I know, but it seems like sometimes you think you have to have skin on display, or flirt, to be- um, I dunno, seen?”

Her words stung, not because they were unkind but because they were true. He did feel that way, not just sometimes, but often. Ian sat next to her on the bed, leaning over to rest his head on her shoulder, despite the awkwardness from their height differences. He didn’t say anything.

Fiona kissed the top of his head and sighed deeply.

His phone beeped with a text alert and he grabbed it without moving.

Michelle S. (6:36 PM): Here!

“Time to go, Fi. I’ll be fine, really.”

She sat back, looking at him with concern.

“Don’t forget your cookies.”

* * *

**_In a church basement… (Mickey)_ **

Mickey and AJ had parked easily enough and paid their requisite “$5 suggested donation, but really whatever you want to pay” donation to get in the door. Mickey was relieved to see he and AJ weren’t the only ones in costumes. AJ was dressed like a very low-budget Jack Sparrow, with an eye patch, dark bandana, and brown scarf as a belt. Some people had gone all out- there was a woman in a hoop skirt that made Mickey’s eyes widen trying to figure out how she did _anything_ with it on.

Then, all his attention had been drawn to one focal point- Ian was already there, standing behind a table heaped with cakes and cookies and trays of finger foods. He was hovering with his hands shoved deeply into his military-type camouflage pants. Mickey’s mouth was dry just looking at them; never let it be said he didn’t have a thing for military men. Might have been all that early exposure to gun magazines. 

“You ok here if I go, uh, socialize?” Mickey thumbed his lip and looked quickly at AJ, who nodded. 

“I think I’ll manage. Make sure you vote for me in the costume contest. It’s your duty as a sponsee.”

“Fuck no, man. I’m voting for myself.”

_I’m voting for Ian, obviously._

“I am wounded, Mickey. Truly wounded. You think I should enter the talent show?”

“As what, a scarecrow?”

“Words hurt, Mickey.” But AJ’s tone and face were full of joy, like this casual teasing from Mickey was a paean to their friendship. Which, it kind of was.

Mickey gave him a dual-handed middle-finger salute and walked away before the guy tried to hug him. He might have let him, if they weren’t in front of 40 or more other addicts.

He took in the room, ambling aimlessly, looking at people’s costumes, waving, even talking to the few who knew him, or didn’t piss him off when they introduced themselves and he obviously didn’t hug them. He ended up at the refreshments table, which was his goal the whole time, and grabbed a cup of soda. He stood, studying the options. There were a few requisite trays of limp vegetables, but most of the food was home-made, carb heavy, and looked amazing. 

“Hey.”

Mickey jumped when he heard the voice right behind him, turning to see Gallagher, hands clasped behind his back making his chest look even more broad.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, GI Jane?”

Ian ducked his head, and Mickey felt a wash of shame, the kid probably thought Mickey hated him or some shit.

“You, uh, you look good.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Do I now? I was told I looked utterly adorable. That’s a direct quote from Miss Jane at the door, I’ll have you know.”

Ian grinned, and Mickey felt relief. 

“Sure, Mick. You look really good.”

There was a pause, and Mickey realized it was his turn to talk. He gestured vaguely at Ian’s body.

“That all looks- fine.” He took a hasty sip of his soda to avoid saying more.

Ian’s grin broadened at the faint praise. If only Mickey could easily tell him what he really thought, if he could just get the words out…

“I made these.” Ian was offering him a plate of oddly flat and burnt looking cookies, so Mickey picked one up to be polite. 

_See, AJ, I can be polite._

“Can I ask you a question, Mick?”

“You just did, kid.” Ian’s brow started to furrow until Mickey saved him. “But sure. Ask away.” He shoved the cookie into his mouth whole. He coughed once and started to chew carefully. Something crunched inside the cookie.

“I was just wondering if we’re friends or not?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows dismissively, and finished chewing on his cookie, watching Ian’s face. He swallowed, reached a hand up, patted Ian softly on the cheek.

“Of course we are.”

The moment could have gotten awkward fast, but the MC for the night was starting to speak over the microphone, and the cavernous room quieted quickly. The man, dressed in rainbow suspenders and a clown nose, was standing on a slightly raised platform at the back of the room, one the church must have used for small performances of their own.

“Tonight, for your delight and entertainment, we will be having a few of our most talented members amaze us with some talent performances. In addition to voting for best costume, single, partners, and group, tonight, you can also vote for best talent. The winner gets a free copy of Living Clean!”

The crowd cheered as if the MC had said the winner was getting a lifetime supply of free movie popcorn.

“And if anyone is feeling inspired by that prize, we still have a few slots open for performers! Just come see me at the literature table.” The MC turned to point to a slightly better lit folding table in a corner of the basement, piled high with books and pamphlets, staffed by two girls in matching black tutus and leotards. 

“First up, here’s,” the MC had to look at a sticky note in his hand to check the details, “Austin, performing that old Dolly classic- _Jolene_!” 

The guy in question leaned over to whisper in the MC’s ear. 

“Uh, sorry folks, change of song. Tonight, Austin will be performing Soldier Boy, originally recorded by The Shirelles, for all you dinosaurs out there!” 

Not all, but enough of the people in the room turned to glance at Ian, wondering what the connection was.

Ian’s ears and neck were bright red, even in the dim lighting, Mickey could see.

_What’s going on here?_

* * *

_**(Ian)** _

_Oh no, please, no._

Ian’s mental prayer went unanswered.

It was the guy who he’d met when he first started his commitment as greeter, who had shown up to the meeting high and tried to pull him into a kiss. And now he was singing a song, in front of everyone ( _Mickey_ ) that seemed like it could be about him.

Oblivious to Ian’s mounting distress, Austin perched on the edge of a folding chair and laid his guitar across his lap, beginning to strum slowly.

_Soldier boy, oh my little soldier boy_

_I'll be true to you_

_You were my first love_

_And you'll be my last love_

_I will never make you blue_

_I'll be true to you._

Austin’s voice wasn’t bad, but it was his words that put the stricken look on Ian’s face. He’d had a flash of memory, of seeing the man singing before, before that first meeting where Austin had pushed his boundaries. Seeing Austin’s skin spread out before him, and Ian’s dick-

He’d fucked this guy. Sometime during his using, he’d fucked Austin. And now the guy was singing to him, in front of everyone. The frequent moon-eyes from Austin to Ian’s direction made it clear, as did the slightly changed lyrics.

_In the whole world_

_You can love but one guy_

_Let me be that one guy_

_For I'll be true to you_

_Where ever you go_

_My heart will follow_

Ian’s heart was facing, and he felt all the blood in his body pool in his feet: he swayed slightly, then warm, rough hands were coming to his arms, and holding him up, then guiding him into a chair. The singing just kept going, it was all he could hear or focus on, even as Austin looked around through his guitar-plunking, confused, not seeing where Ian had disappeared to.

_I love you so_

_I'll be true to you_

_Take my love with you_

_To any port or foreign shore_

_Darling you must feel for sure_

_I'll be true to you_

_Soldier boy oh my little soldier boy_

_I'll be true to you._

Ian just sat, frozen, his heart cold. 

_How could I forget? And what am I gonna do now?_

* * *

_**(Mickey)** _

“Gallagher?” Mickey looked at Ian’s face, seeing the color gone. “Hey, Gallagher.” He snapped his fingers in front of Ian a few times, but nothing happened, then he saw the taller man’s frame shaking ever so slightly: he grabbed him by the upper arms and guided him to an empty chair nearby. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

He looked up at the stage, saw the singer looking around in confusion, not seeing Ian, and put two and two together. “He’s singing… to you?”

It made sense. Gallagher wasn’t hard on the eyes. He was a good person, at heart. People liked that shit, guys especially. 

“Crap taste in music, but I guess if you like that kinda thing.” Mickey could tell Ian was zoned out, lost in some personal reverie, a painful one, going by his facial expression.

Mounting applause echoed around them as Austin left the stage, but Mickey and Ian were in their own worlds, Ian’s an internal one of self-doubt, and Mickey’s of concern for Ian.

“Now we’ll have a brief intermission before the next performer, Joanne, who will be juggling…”

Mickey stopped listening, focused only on Ian.

He squatted on his haunches, directly in front of Ian, in his sight line. He placed his hands on Ian’s knees, lightly, trying to get his attention. The physical contact did seem to have an effect, because Ian’s eye flicked to his hands, latching there, before his hands followed, laying over Mickey’s, then curling around them, until [they held hands](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EaRY3XpXkAE6aOf?format=jpg&name=900x900) like children.

“Stay with me here, kid, ok?” Mickey squeezed his hands. Ian finally glanced at him, and Mickey felt the old electric connection, the warmth of the months of hugs, all channeled in a gaze and sparking through their hands. 

“Hey, um, Ian?” Mickey whipped his head around to see Austin standing behind him, hands clasped anxiously. He stood, keeping one hand linked to Ian’s, which Austin definitely saw, if the shocked expression on his face was anything to go by. 

“He’s busy. What’s your costume, douchebag?” Mickey was good at this, at attacking first, with words, or fists. 

Austin had on jeans and a yellow shirt with a red bandana. 

“Hi, I’m Au-”

“We know who the fuck you are.” Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“Oh.” Austin waited a moment, expecting Mickey to introduce himself, but Mickey just stared at him. “I’m Woody, from Toy Story? And, well, uh, I just wanted to talk to Ian about-”

“He look like he wants to talk to you right now?” Ian’s eyes were still locked on the floor, but his back had tightened. 

“It’s just crazy to see him here, like, cause when we were using together, and … um, stuff, we always talked about the future, and now we’re both here and-”

“-OK, relax, loverboy.” Mickey put up a hand to stop Austin’s barrage of verbiage. “Why don’t you go get a cookie, maybe bring Ian here a soda, get a real fuckin’ costume, and then come back and you two can have a little chat.” Ian shot Mickey a confused glance, but Austin bought the plan gratefully and stepped away from the two men, who still held hands. 

“Are we really gonna wait here for him to bring me a soda?” Ian’s voice was low but clear.

“Fuck, no.” Mickey pulled Ian up by the hand. “C’mon.”

Mickey led Ian through the crowd, never letting go of his hand, passing AJ with a nod at his raised questioning eyebrow.

_Just let me do this, dude._

An older woman stood next to AJ, and seemed about to raise a question, but AJ threw his arm around her shoulders and started a conversation that seemed to placate her.

Mickey wasn’t sure where the hallways down here led, but he made some random turns and ended up at a dead end, piled high with cardboard boxes marked “Xmas” and “Easter.”

Ian released his hand, and they stood there uncomfortably until Mickey broke the tension with a faint smile.

“So, _friend_ , what the fuck was that?”

“That was Austin,” Ian said carefully. “Apparently we hooked up, before.” He made a little hand gesture, indicating the past.

“Before?”

_Like last week, last year, a decade ago? The fuck does ‘before’ mean?_

“Before we got clean.”

“And what was he doing up there tonight?”

“He was singing. To me.”

“Yeah, I caught that. Everyone in the room caught that. Why though?”

Ian grimaced. “I don’t- I don’t remember all of it, but I think we might have- talked about the future? Like, between rounds of fucking, and drugs. And maybe he took that to heart. Like, seeing me here again was a sign.”

_I sure as shit thought it was a sign when I saw you again, here._

“I sure as shit thought it was a sign when I saw you again, here.”

Ian looked at him fully, surprised.

“What, bitch? I can’t have feelings too?”

“Of course you can. It’s good that you do, Mick.”

“Good, glad, we got that cleared up. You like the guy?”

_Please say no._

The wince on Ian’s face told the whole story before his mouth even opened. “God, no. He tried to hit on me back when I first got here, he was still using, and I guess he got confused? But I didn’t recognize him, and it sucked. I thought people here didn’t do shit like that.”

“Seems like some of ‘em didn’t get that suggestion.”

“Either way, I haven’t seen him since then, it’s been what, five months? And then when he was up there tonight, I recognized him. I mean, I remember some of what happened…”

His voice trailed off.

“I have shit like that.” Mickey admitted.

Ian looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Since we’re being honest. There’s some shit I kind of remember, and kind of don’t. About- about us. Back then.”

“But you remember what your-”

“I remember what my piece of shit, waste of life father did, yeah. Unfortunately.”

“God, Mick, I am so sorry. I wish I could have- done something? Saved you?”

“Nah, he would have killed you. Or me. Or both of us.” Mickey waved away the apology, the regrets. 

_I am not ready to have this conversation with you._

“Not quite ready to talk all this through with you. Still workin’ on explaining it to my therapist.” Mickey said soberly.

“You have a therapist? That you actually go and like, talk to?”

“What, you think I don’t need to talk about my shit?”

“Mick, ten years ago you wouldn’t even admit you had problems to talk about. This is huge!”

“Ok, calm down, there, firecrotch.” The old nickname had slipped out, and they both paused, letting it echo through the disused hallway.

Mickey was the first to recover, “So you want that guy, the yodeling cowboy up there, to leave you alone?”

“Fuck, yes, I really do. But I don’t wanna-”

Mickey interrupted him. “You trust me?”

“I- I do.”

Mickey thumbed his lip once, and nodded tightly.

“You can’t hit him, Mickey, you know that, right?” Ian asked urgently.

“I got a plan, kid. ‘M not gonna hit him, ok?”

“Ok, Mick.” Ian’s eyes shone, and Mickey had to tell himself he wouldn’t do almost anything on earth to have Ian Gallagher look at him like that again.

* * *

**_(Ian)_ **

When they re-entered the main room of the event, people were standing around and watching a young woman reading a poem off her phone. She was cursing a lot, and seemed very… passionate.

Mickey had grabbed Ian’s hand again as they walked down the hall, and Mickey had seemed disinclined to let go, so Ian just held on for the ride.

As they worked their way through the crowd, people had to move to let them through. 

Ian couldn’t tell where exactly they were going, but Mickey was moving like he knew, so he let himself be led. Finally, Mickey found his destination, and stopped abruptly, dropping Ian’s hand, but turning his body so they were facing each other.

Mickey’s eyes found his, and seemed to be asking something, his clear blues luminous and shining in the half-light of the room. Ian willed his face to show acceptance, to be open and willing.

Telegraphing every move, Mickey reached up and put his hand on Ian’s nape. Ian let himself be pulled down, watching Mickey’s eyes grow and soften as he got closer, until their lips brushed, gently, at first, then the kiss deepened; Mickey’s tongue swept across the seam of Ian’s mouth and he opened for him. A harsh gasp sounded behind Ian but he barely noticed until he felt Mickey pulling away, the warm, anchoring hand gone from his neck. 

_This isn’t how I expected our first real kiss to happen._

He turned, more out of curiosity than interest, and saw Austin, his expression a shattered mask, before he covered his face with his hands and scurried away. Ian turned back to Mickey, who wasn’t touching him anymore. The makeup puppy-nose was a little smudged now.

_Wait, had it been real or had it been to get Austin to back off?_

_Do I want it to be real?_

He opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically unsure of what the right thing to say would be.

Mickey had shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunching up his shoulders like he expected to be hit or hurt. Ian smiled at that, at Mickey’s instant defensiveness anytime he helped anyone, or touched them with kindness. Like it was some huge secret that he wasn’t a piece of shit. Ian put his own hands in his pockets and rocked until his elbow nudged Mickey’s elbow. 

“Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but he still replied “Welcome.”

* * *

_**(Mickey)** _

“I gotta…” Mickey pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, “take a leak. See ya around, Gallagher.”

And then he ran away. 

Ok, he didn’t run. He sauntered vaguely downwards to find AJ, who had his arms crossed, waiting for him.

“Hey Mickey.”

“Hey.” He mimicked AJ’s posture, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

“You remember that thing I said?”

“Uh- probably no.”

“About express permission before adult content?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, _that_.”

“Chill man, it was just a kiss. I didn’t suck his dick in the newcomer's chair at the center of the circle or anything.”

“Mickey, you clearly still have feelings for the guy, and you just turned a kiss, a physical expression of emotions, into some weird alpha dominance move to warn off another guy. In front of eighty people.”

“They were watching the poetry bitch!”

“Yeah, until Austin made a scene, and then they all watched you whip out your dick and smack Austin with it. Metaphorically.”

“Aww, fuck. I’m gonna have to talk about this shit, aren’t I.

“Yup. But not with me. With _him_.”

Mickey hung his head.

* * *

_**(Ian)** _

Ian found himself alone in the crowd, feeling suddenly chilly and confused. 

_This wasn’t how it was supposed to go._

_I need help._

He scanned the room quickly, looking for Michelle, finally catching sight of her surreptitiously dumping a plate of cookies into the trash. Were those _his_ cookies? He hurried over to her.

“Michellllllle,” he whined overdramatically. 

“Ian.” She hid his tupperware behind her back with both hands, maybe hoping he hadn’t seen. 

“I need my sponsor.”

“I’m right here, what can I do?”

“Did you see?”

“I think everyone saw that.” She smiled at him.

“No! Michelle, this isn’t a ‘smile at silly Ian’ moment! This is a ‘Ian is fucking up again’ moment!”

“What makes you say that?”

“This?” Ian pointed his index finger at himself for emphasis. “This is not restoration to sanity. This is like living in insanity full time, or buying a time-share there.”

Michelle laughed, which should have infuriated him, but he still felt like she understood and cared for him.

“Ian, have you considered that maybe it is?”

“Huh?”

“Maybe _that_ was a restoration to sanity.”

“The kiss?”

“Yup. The pattern you two were in couldn’t last, we talked about that. Now you’re out of it. Or will be, if you just talk to him about it.”

“I- Bu- How?” Ian’s brain was broken, clearly. This wasn’t real life. 

“I’m just a romantic, I guess, but you two have something. If it was just sex, you’d already have slipped up and slept together. This back and forth thing is about feelings, which makes me think there’s something more there.”

_Oh._

“Oh.”

“Go talk to him, Ian.”

“As my sponsor, aren’t you supposed to be telling me to stay _out_ of relationships?”

She sighed deeply. “Ian, I am not telling you to get into a relationship with him, I am telling you to discuss the situation, like adults.”

* * *

**_(Mickey)_ **

Mickey had retreated to the parking lot to smoke and think. He wasn’t _hiding_. The fact that Ian found him was proof he hadn’t been hiding.

****

Ian reached out and plucked the half-smoked cigarette from Mickey’s finger, taking a long drag before handing it back.

****

Ian broke the silence first this time, “You get a lecture?”

“Yup. You too?”

“Yup.”

“Fucker has some dumbass rule about ‘no relationships-”

“-in the first year’, yeah, Michelle does too!” 

Ian finished his sentence. Usually Mickey hated being cut off, it made him feel like what he had been saying wasn’t important. But when Ian did it, he knew the kid was just excited by what Mickey had said that he couldn’t wait. Like Mickey’s brain _made_ his brain do that.

****

“And now I gotta have a talk with you.” Mickey’s serious tone made Ian’s face fall and he rushed to reassure him, “It ain’t a bad talk!”

“Are there good ‘We need to talk’ talks?”

“This one is, I think.” He took a last pull from the cigarette and stubbed it out. “I- uh-”

“- I still like you, Mick.” Ian’s words burst out, surprising him.

“Wait, what? You do?”

“Wait, no, what were you gonna say?”

“That- Me, too. You.” Ian reached out his fingers and pinched Mickey’s upper arm. “Hey, oww!”

“Spit it out, already!”

“Fuck, that hurts.” Mickey rubbed his arm. “Geez, I was gonna say I still liked you to, before you became Mr. Grabby Hands.”

****

Suddenly serious, Ian stepped back. “You know what this means, right?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t get the memo on handling this shit.”

“What do you want here?”

Mickey froze, then answered slowly. “What do _you_ want here, Gallagher? Cause the way I see it, you call the shots.”

“No. Nope.” Ian shook his head. “I don’t want to be the one calling the shots. At least not all the time.”

“Ok, we share the thing. What thing are we sharing the calling of?”

“What you want. From me. Now.”

Mickey thumbed his lip, looking like he might bite his nail. “I guess, I want to see what happens.”

“You want me to fuck you, Mick?”

Mickey’s eyes bulged, but he recovered. “Fuck, yes. But not like- this second.”

“I want to fuck you again, Mickey Milkovitch.”

“Good to know we’re on the same page there.”

“But we can’t right now.”

****

_Of course not._

****

“Yeah, I kinda figured. You got a guy?” Mickey’s eyes were hooded, not engaged. 

****

“What? No, I don’t have someone else, you idiot. I mean because of recovery. I want more than just fucking with you. I’m still healing and coping with some stuff and I want-” Ian took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I want a healthy romantic relationship.”

****

Mickey scoffed. “And somehow you think _I’m_ your guy for that?” 

“Yeah, actually. I’ve been watching you. You’re doing steps, you go to meetings, you’re not a scumbag anymore. I’m not sure you ever really were, I think your family just-”

“-Shut up, Gallagher.” In the street lights, Mickey’s skin was flushed. “I- I want that too.”

“Good.”

“Good!”

The escalation and release of tension was too much, and they both broke down in giggles, holding their stomachs, hunched over, struggling to breath. It was too absurd, to be here, together, now, like this.

_If I had a higher power, the fucker sure would have to have a sense of humor._

****

After the giggles had subsided, mostly, and they both sat there, slightly breathless and giddy, Ian spoke up. “I want to take you on a date.”

“A date?”

“You know, it's when two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

Mickey’s brows drew down in skepticism. “Yeah?”

“Yup.”

Mickey smacked his own forehead, hard. “I can NOT believe I’m sayin’ this but… I have to ask my sponsor first.”

_Who am I?_

“Ok.” Ian beamed at him.

“He could say no. He’s a perverse mother-fucker.”

Ian shrugged his shoulders, his eyes still happy and soft. “We’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Halloween dances, or dances in general, are not recovery universal, but they are a lot of fun. And you totally can show up without a costume.  
> 2\. There are a variety of books published by NA World Services, and Living Clean is one of them. It focuses on recovery topics for members who have been in recovery for a little while. It mixes stories from real addicts with readings on a variety of topics.  
> 3\. Dinosaurs is a slang term for people in recovery with SUBSTANTIAL clean time, 25+ years and up.  
> 4\. The Newcomer's chair. At many, though not all, meetings, the chairs are in a circle, with one chair in the middle, left empty, for "the addict who didn't get here yet," sometimes known as the newcomer's chair. 
> 
> If I've missed anything that needs an explanation, please comment!


	12. How it Works: Step 3 Part 1 (Mickey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.  
> It's November, and Mickey needs to figure out how he feels about this whole date idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapters continue to be longer, my posting schedule will continue to be slow- one or two chapters a week I think, rather than daily. 
> 
> For the readers who feel bad for Austin, do not despair. We'll see him again.
> 
> Also, in re-reading, I realized how much I owe to the Like Real People Do fic, so thank you Grayola for all the inspiration!

It was November 3rd, and Mickey was sitting in Emily’s office. He’d passed his UA, obviously, and now they were talking. It had been three days since The Hug Situation had escalated, and Ian had asked him out on a date, but nothing had happened yet. And the waiting was killing Mickey- he hadn’t even gotten a text, he felt like a stereotypical chick waiting for a guy to call.

“What’s on your mind today, Mickey?” Emily asked.

“Nothin’.” His fingers were twisting the bottom seam of his sweater, over and over.

“Oh? Because you’re not usually on the verge of shredding your clothes when we meet. You peed clean. What’s up?”

Mickey let his head fall back until he was staring at the ceiling.

“I did something stupid, I think.”

“Mickey, what did you do?” Emily’s voice had a tone of actual alarm.

“Oh, relax. I didn’t use or hurt anyone. It was the Halloween shitshow.”

“The dance and talent show?”

“Yeah, except it was a shitshow. The costumes sucked-”

“- you mean _you_ didn’t win a prize?”

He gave her an evil look and continued, “and the talent was _lacking_.”

“And that’s why you’re attacking your sweater like it personally offended you?”

He was silent, considering how much to tell her, what was safe and what wasn’t.

While she waited, Emily was folding a piece of colored paper, folding it along various seams and then unfolding it, and unintentionally Mickey got drawn in.

“The fuck’s that?”

“It’s origami.” She had finished her seams, and now was folding each corner into the center.

“Like the swan shit?”

“Sometimes. This one should be familiar to you, actually.” She flipped the paper over and folded the new corners into the center.

“Doubt it.”

Emily did something with the folded paper and suddenly it was a fortune teller, that’s what they’d called them in elementary school, when he’d last seen one.

“Oh, hey, I do. You gonna tell my fortune now?” His posture was engaged now, he was leaning forward with his elbows on the edge of her desk.

“Nope, you are.”

“The fuck, I am.” He sat back, crossing his arms defiantly.

Emily just undid whatever she had done to the paper, unfolding it part way and pulling out a pen. “I find this exercise useful with my clients who struggle to visualize their future. Where are four places you could live?”

He played along, because at heart, and though he’d never tell _her_ , he kind of enjoyed their time together, even if it would ruin his street cred to say so. He thought she knew, anyway.

“Uh, Southside, Canaryville, Chicago, and … cemetery?”

“Nope, try again. I’ll put down Southside. You still need three other choices.”

“Ok, ok, what about - New York, Key West, and New Orleans.”

“Huh. Not what I expected, but good answers. Next, I need four types of vehicles. Dream big, here.”

“So you don’t want me to include a cop car or a prison van?”

Emily didn’t even justify that one with a response.

“Fine,” Mickey grumped for show. “G-Wagon, Escalade, Prius, and public bus.”

“Public bus is dreaming big for you?”

“Sure, having a bus pass that’s always full would be an upgrade right now.”

“Fair. Ok, last one. Four _legitimate_ future jobs.”

That stumped him for a moment. Legitimate meant not dealing, not working at a chop shop. It meant paying taxes and shit. 

“Mechanic, cashier, waiter, and I guess-” He was interrupted by Emily’s giggle.

“What, bitch? I’m doing what you told me to!”

“Mickey, can you seriously see yourself as a waiter? Telling people to _enjoy_ their meal?”

“Eh, you might be right. Scratch that one. Mechanic, cashier-”

“-Why cashier?”

“I’m good with numbers and math and shit. ~~My da~~ ~~-~~ Terry always made me look at the books for whoever he was shaking down, to see what they were really bringing in.”

“What about accounting, then?”

“Don’t you need a college degree for that?”

“I think you can do it with a 2-year degree, or at least get started.”

“I don’t even have a GED; let’s try and manage our expectations, here.”

She met his eyes.

“Oh, no. No way.” He waved his hands in a X-shape in the air. “Uh-uh. I am not going back to school right now, I have enough on my plate as it is with-”

“-With what, exactly?”

“With- with recovery,” he finished, lamely. He’d meant Gallagher. Figuring that out was taking most of his brain power right now.

“I just want you to start thinking about it. These three years are gonna fly by and I want you to come out of it at the end with some tangible good stuff to keep you on track.”

He looked balefully at the half folded sheet of paper.

“That fortune-teller thing doesn’t do shit, does it?”

“Nah, but it got you talking, didn’t it?”

Mickey crossed his arms and sat back, pretending to be annoyed. They both knew he needed time to process.

“So the thing on your plate, it’s a person, right?”

He glared at her.

“And I’m sure your sponsor already-”

“-Spare me the lecture. AJ had this whole song and dance ready about ‘taking it slow’ and ‘Mickey, you’re a middle-school girl emotionally’.”

“He really said that?” Emily wrinkled her nose.

“He really did.”

_And he might be right._

  
  


“Is the person our… mutual acquaintance?”

“You mean the person you used to blackmail me to stay in rehab for? None other.”

Emily smiled brightly, “That’s great!”

“How ya figure?” Mickey was getting mental whiplash trying to keep up with her leaps in logic.

“Because it means this isn’t just some recovery infatuation. I’m not saying it’s true love, but at least you’re not being blinded by rose-colored glasses or a pink cloud.”

“Rose what nows?”

“Rose-colored glasses. Pink cloud. It means when you get into recovery and suddenly you’re not living in chaos and it's more peaceful. You start discovering new possibilities and the future doesn't look so bleak as it did when you were using. Like true/real life hasn't kicked in yet. and you think it will be like that forever. The people who think like that are usually in for a rough ride when the effect wears off.”

“And you think that means- like, I’m gonna wake up soon and the world will be shit again?” He laughed, a little harshly. 

“No, Mickey. I’m saying you’re _not_ like that. And it’s a good thing. From our time together I’ve noticed that you’re much more likely to have a negative outlook. If you’re actually making plans for the future, even in the short term, that’s a good thing.”

“It’s probably all gonna go to shit.”

“There he is: that’s the Mickey I know.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands, as if he was the most fascinating reptile in a cage. “But why do you think that?” Her tone was mostly clinical, professional, but he knew, he could hear, that once again he’d wounded her by denigrating himself. 

He looked at her pointedly, leaning forward to mimic her posture: “Ok, you wanna know? Let’s do some therapy on this shit. Past evidence says when me and him are together, it goes sideways. Present evidence says we’re both early in recovery and probably super unstable. I don’t have any history of healthy relationships - like - at all. Not sex, not family, not anyone. All that tells me is that this is gonna suck, probably sooner than later.”

Emily sat back and did a slow clap, and Mickey eyeballed her. “What?”

“That was a great speech.” There was laughter under her words, and Mickey thought she might be using his own sarcasm back at him as she continued, “Did you practice it?”

“No!”

_Maybe a little._

“I think you’re dealing with some realistic fears. And it might be easier to cut your losses now. You’re right that early recovery is a bad time to start a relationship.”

“Your reverse psychology bullshit’s not gonna work on me. I won’t be baited into telling you all the reasons why it _is_ a good idea.”

Emily laughed, seemingly delighted that he blatantly saw her move.

“Let’s talk about this GED program we hold here two nights a week…”

Mickey moaned. The woman was insufferable.

* * *

After his appointment with Emily, he felt a little calmer about the Gallagher thing for like, four hours. Then AJ picked him up for a meeting and he was back in the throes of obsession.

AJ was getting fed up with Mickey’s short-temperedness and snark, finally addressing the issue directly.

“Dude, how could he call you? Does he have your number?”

“Uh…”

_Oh._

“Yeah, I thought so. You two are such idiots. It’s a good thing I’ve got this meeting list with his number right here.”

Mickey quickly reached over to snag the paper but AJ held it out of reach. “Ah, ah, ah. First things first. You get the number after we talk about this.”

“The fuck we gotta talk about? Imma call him, we’ll…” Mickey trailed off. 

“Yeah, right, then what? You’ll go fuck and then see him next week at the meeting?”

_Maybe?_

“He said he wanted- ‘a healthy romantic relationship.’”

AJ didn’t reply, giving Mickey time and space to think and then continue, “And I guess he somehow thinks that I know how to do this shit, which I do not. I’m basically fucked. For life.”

“Aww, Mickey, it’s ok. You have a secret weapon.” AJ was talking in a stage-whisper, like he was sharing a secret.

“So help me god, if you say some shit about a higher power or acceptance right now I will throw myself out the door!”

AJ laughed, “Nah, man, you have me. Actually, you have the whole fellowship. You guys are like poster children for what not to do but everyone who sees you two wants you to get married and have a million babies and live happily ever after, and we’re gonna help you out.”

Mickey eyed him warily, having never experienced anyone having his back, let alone dozens or hundreds of people. Ok, addicts. But still. 

“You do know that we can’t actually have babies of our own? Two dudes?”

Yes, Mickey.” AJ rolled his eyes expressively. “I am aware of biology, thank you. It’s an _expression_.”

“So fuckin’ help me already!”

AJ started to hand over the phone list with a flourish then yanked it back at the last second.

“Mother-fucker!” Mickey flung himself back into his seat, pissed at being teased.

“What do you plan to say to him when I give you his number and you call him? ‘Hi, Ian, do you want to get a milkshake and make out with me? No? What about a burger and a blowjob? Hotdog and a handie?’”AJ was holding back his laughter but his upper lip and mustache were twitching, which was his tell, Mickey knew. Mickey frowned, his eyebrows drawing down and a wrinkle emerging between his eyes. He looked, though he did not know it, like a three-year old who has had his will crossed. 

“You are enjoying this far too much,” Mickey growled. “What _should_ I do?”

AJ handed over the paper wordlessly. 

Mickey took it, helpless to do otherwise, but now totally unsure of what to do with it. 

“That’s the second step, working in your life right now. Asking for help. Third step, you take the help. Turn shit over. You ready for that?”

“Fuck it, maybe?” Mickey couldn’t say yes, not yet. But he was willing to listen.

“‘Fuck it’ does not count as turning it over, Mickey. Just call the guy. Chances are, he’s in the same boat, anxious and confused. So don’t be a dick when he’s awkward and weird. You think you can do that?”

_I’m good at like, two things in this world: being a drug dealer and a dick._

“Probably not.” 

_Feelings ain’t real, anyway. Fucking is real. Physical shit- that I can see, that’s real._

“Try anyway. This isn’t a new relationship, but it’s also not the time to make life-commitments. You guys need to work on developing a friendship first. No more kissing, dick waving, or shit until we talk again.” 

_Fuck._

“Fuck, I’m guessing the hugging has to stop, too?” He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice and he wanted to snatch back the words and the tone as soon as they emerged. He was getting too comfortable just telling this man how he felt all the time, it was a dangerous luxury his life had taught him he could not afford.

“God, no. You’re the most touch-starved individual I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. And watching you two hug at meetings is becoming a spectacle, people get off on that now. If you stopped, well, it’d be like everyone’s favorite soap opera got cancelled, especially after the Halloween thing, and the singing-”

“-Enough. I got it. Hugging, yes. Everything else, no. We’ll be like a couple of [ Care Bears, huggin’ and starin ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYKc-WiKuNI)’.”

“And maybe tell him how you feel.”

“How I feel?”

“Like, it doesn’t matter where you go or what you do, because you’ll be together.”

It was true, but Mickey still had to sit and think about that for a while.

* * *

That night in his room, Mickey stared at the meeting list with Gallagher’s loopy handwriting and number on it. He’d already procrastinated to the best of his ability: threw all the clothes from the floor into a bag and shoved the bag into the closet, tried to make pizza bagels, saw they expired two years ago and then went through the whole freezer and fridge, discarding expired food. He’d taken a shower, even, scrubbed himself under the too-hot water, like if he was physically clean enough, he’d feel safer calling Gallagher. 

But in the end, he wussed out, lit up a cigarette, and texted the kid.

**Mickey M (11:11 PM):** Hey Gallager

The reply was almost instantaneous.

 **Ian G (11:11 PM):** that you Mick❓❔❓❔

 **Mickey M (11:12 PM):** Yeah howd you know?

 **Ian G (11:12 PM):** u always spell my name wrong theres an H before the E

_God, he was so dumb. And now Gallagher knew it too._

**Ian G (11:14PM):** u still there? 👀

 **Mickey M (11:15 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian G (11:16 PM):** Im so sorry i didnt have ur number and u were at a different meeting and i didnt know what to do!! 💔💔💔💔💔

_Awkward and weird, yup._

**Mickey M (11:16 PM):** Chill. It’s fine.

 **Ian G (11:17 PM):** Its not FINE. We r goin on a date. 👏

 **Mickey M (11:18 PM):** Yeah?

 **Ian G (11:18 PM):** YEAH! 👍

 **Mickey M (11:19 PM):** ok. 

**Ian G (11:119 PM):** u already said yes Mick, u cant take it back i mean u can but pls dont please

 **Mickey M (11:20 PM):** Gallagher. Not taking it back. 

**Ian G (11:20 PM):** good

 **Mickey M (11:20 PM):** Good

 **Mickey M (11:21 PM):** when do you want to do this? And what were you thinking about doing?

 **Ian G (11:22 PM):** soon and u

Mickey laughed to himself quietly: he knew the feeling.

 **Mickey M (11:23 PM)** : yeah ok lol

 **Ian G (11:23 PM):** did u just lol at me??? 👀👀👀👀

 **Mickey M (11:24 PM):** shut up

 **Ian G (11:25 PM):** ok what about ☕ coffee b4 the mtg on monday? 

**Mickey M (11:25 PM):** sounds good- where?

 **Ian G (11:26 PM):** Starbucks ok?★$s

 **Mickey M (11:27 PM):** yeah 

He steeled himself, and wrote on, thinking of AJ’s suggestion.

 **Mickey M (11:27 PM):** with you it’ll be great

 **Ian G (11:28 PM):** 💓💓💓💓

Mickey couldn’t take anymore, he had to stop texting the idiot or he’d say something really dumb. Like _I want to touch every freckle on your skin and see if they taste the same._

 **Mickey M (11:27 PM):** g’night Gallagher

 **Ian G (11:27 PM):** night Mick sweet dreams 💓

_One emoji couldn’t hurt, right?_

**Mickey M (11:29 PM):** [🖤](https://emojipedia.org/facebook/4.0/black-heart/)

* * *

But the Monday coffee thing (Mickey kept telling himself it was a date, but his brain wasn’t sure what a date was that didn’t have kissing or fucking, so it settled on _thing_ ) got postponed when Ian had a last-minute court appearance to check on his progress. Mickey had anxiously texted him before, during, and after the meeting, superstitiously afraid that he’d be thrown in jail for an administrative mix-up, because Mickey couldn’t have nice things in his life. He knew the whole thought process was fucked up and selfish, but that’s what it was. Ian’s rapid-fire texts after he left the courtroom were all positive, 

**Ian G (8:17 PM):** Judge said im doin good

 **Mickey M (8:19 PM):** Fuck the police. Ur doing Great.

Then, suddenly, it was the week before Thanksgiving, and though they’d seen each other at a couple of meetings, sitting next to each other and bumping knees softly, the date kept not working out with therapy schedules and appointments, until they were standing outside at the end of the EastSide Sunday Night candlelight speaker meeting, bemoaning the latest reschedule.

“This is so dumb, man, maybe we should just call it off, the universe is saying ‘no way.’” 

Ian looked aghast, like Mickey had stolen his lunch money, or punched him.

“No way, Mick! We just have to get creative here.”

Mickey sucked on his cigarette pensively, before blowing a ring of smoke. “You busy Thursday? I don’t have any appointments.”

“You mean Thursday like, Thanksgiving?”

“I guess,” he shrugged.

“I mean, I have dinner with my family but…” Ian’s voice trailed off, but his eyes were alight. Mickey knew that look, knew it did not bode well for himself.

“Spit it out, Gallagher. What’s the plan?”

“Come to dinner at mine!” When Mickey’s facial expression became closed, Ian put his hand on Mickey’s arm, pleading. “It’s not like that- they don’t remember you personally from back then, and there are always a million people and too much food and-”

“-I ain’t meetin’ your family for the first time on Thanksgiving. And if they don’t remember my family then they’re morons.”

“But you’ve already met them all before! This is like… a reunion. Of course they know of the Milkovitch’s but I’ll just tell ‘em you’re- different.”

“And where are you gonna tell ‘em we met again? At therapy? At the convenience store where I got shot and you fucked your older, married boss? At court? At rehab? Little league? At-”

“-What?” Ian interrupted him. “But we _didn’t_ meet in rehab.”

_Fuck. Fucking fuckity fucking shit fuck._

Mickey stopped talking, and stared at the sidewalk fixedly.

“Mickey? What are you talking about?”

“I saw you!” The worst just burst out of his mouth, like Mickey’s brain had no say in the matter at all. 

“You- saw me? At- rehab?” Ian didn’t get it yet, Mickey could tell.

He sighed, just once, and let it all spill out.

“I was at the same place. Not the same- like, I was on the regular ward, and I saw you once, well, like three times, in the elevator and smokin outside.”

“I never saw you,” Ian said dazedly. “No one said anything.”

“My counselor knew about- about what happened, you must have said something and she put the pieces together. She, she uh- used you, to get me to stay there. Said you were doin good, and if I stayed, there was hope, but if I AMA’d and went back out, there was no way, I’d probably never see you again. And that’s it.” He hadn’t raised his eyes during the whole expulsion of word-vomit, too afraid of what he’d see on Ian’s face, betrayal, rejection, fear.

A callused finger touched his chin, pressing until he lifted his head. Ian’s face was- it was fuckin’ _glowing_ , the freckles kind of pulsing in the half-light. 

“Mickey, you got clean for me?”

“No!” It was his knee-jerk reaction to deny, “I just- I happened to stay at rehab cause you… ok, maybe.”

“Is it ok if I hug you right now?” Ian’s voice was soft, and Mickey knew, he _knew_ , that if they weren’t standing in a loosely connected crowd of addicts after a meeting, they wouldn’t just be hugging. 

_Why was it always Gallagher asking, always Gallagher initiating, opening his arms first? Well, fuck that._

Mickey grinned, and threw his arms around Ian’s torso tightly, squeezing until Ian laughed.

“Mick, hey, Mick, I can’t breathe, c’mon.” But he wrapped those long arms around Mickey in return, resting his cheek on the top of Mickey’s head.

“Tall fucker,” Mickey mumbled contentedly.

“So you’ll come to Thanksgiving?”

“I’ll stop by, yeah.” It was easier to consent when he didn’t have to see the expression on Ian’s face. Too much happiness for them was dangerous; he couldn’t shake the ominous feeling when they did shit like this in public.

“Bring something sweet, it turns out baking isn’t gonna be my new calling.”

“No kidding. Those cookies at Halloween were trash. ”

“Hey!” Mock- offended, Ian started to let go until Mickey tightened his hold again. 

_Say it, say something. Tell him how much he means._

“Doesn’t matter if you can’t bake or cook or whatever. You do you, and I’ll be happy.”

Ian was surprised, Mickey could feel it in his body, but his response shocked the hell out of Mickey. He kissed Mickey’s temple, softly. 

They stood like that, just enjoying what they had, in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. UA - urine analysis, or drug screening. Usually done via paper strip dip, with instant results. If the strip test shows anything weird, or the urine is too diluted, then the test is sent out for further analysis.  
> 2\. Care Bear Stare is an 80's reference that I have learned is not universally known. Enjoy the video!  
> 3\. We will learn more about Ian's charges a little later.  
> 4\. Candlelight meeting just means the meeting is held by candle (often electric candle) light. It's a nice way to temper the intimacy and vulnerability of sharing in a meeting.  
> 5\. Speaker meeting is a meeting format where the group picks a different speaker for the meeting, who shares on a topic, like his/her experience, a specific step or spiritual principle. Usually the speaker talks for 10-20 minutes, and then everyone gets to share either on what they heard or whatever is affecting their recovery. Generally, you need at least 90 days to speak in that role.  
> 6\. AMA/AMA'd. Literally, Against Medical Advice. It means leaving any form of medical care without being discharged, perhaps because you don't like how you're being treated, etc.
> 
> Please do comment if I missed anything to explain!


	13. How it Works: Step 3 Part 2 (Ian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.  
> Thanksgiving is the men's first date. Will they survive the scrutiny?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in addition to LRPD, I'm reading Rebuilding, and trying not to cry at how good it is. Also trying not to steal either of their plots or details. It's respectful homage!
> 
> Let me know if I missed explaining any specialized terminology in the end notes!

Thursday morning arrived, faster than Ian had expected. Every day the house had felt more and more overcrowded as his siblings, their partners, offspring, and friends showed up, found a bed, or a couch, or even an open spot of floor to lay a sleeping bag or nest of blankets on. As much as Ian enjoyed the good vibes of having everyone together, getting a shower was becoming a challenge, and the lack of privacy wasn’t helping anything in the dick-department. 

Ever since he’d been hugging Mickey, his dick had decided to be a fickle bitch. He could get hard, sort of. It was this terrible trade off where he could either get hard and not be able to cum or not be able to get hard at all. The only time he was getting off was in his increasingly-frequent wet dreams. And now that the house was full of semi-strangers, it sucked even more to wake up in the morning and have to strip his bed-sheets and hope the washing machine wasn’t occupied. 

Thanksgiving morning was no different. He awoke feeling sticky and with a half-remembered scene of himself and Mickey fucking in a bed, then the dream had shifted in the way they did to a room filled with sunshine and light curtains blowing in a breeze. It hurt his heart a little, to feel the dream drift away, like he’d lost something, but he knew if he didn’t address his mess before everyone in the house got up, there might be curious glances and rude questions. He quickly changed and bundled his things into a ball, going downstairs to see what the status was. He carefully stepped over Liam’s friend sleeping on the floor of the shared room and headed down.

Instead of being warmed by the smells of baking food like he imagined in a normal house on Thanksgiving morning, or even just coffee, which would be normal for the Gallagher house on any morning, the kitchen was chilly and empty, aside from Frank, sleeping under the table, on what looked like an old dog bed. They’d never had a dog, so that was a mystery in itself. Ian sniffed the damp clothes in the washer, decided they didn’t smell too moldy, and threw them in the dryer before starting his own wash. His next step was to make coffee, but when he looked in the fridge he was thrown for another loop. Instead of the defrosting turkey he expected, or a plethora of vegetables, or even full Tupperware or containers in the freezer, the whole thing was effectively stripped. There was a mostly-empty ketchup bottle on the door, but when he picked it up, he saw the mold growing inside, and tossed it into the trash. 

There was nothing edible in the house. At 9 am on Thanksgiving morning. _Perfect_.

At some point, Frank had woken up and now stood behind Ian, scratching his balls sleepily. 

“What’s for breakfast, son of my brother’s loins?”

“Nothing, Frank. Fridge’s empty.”

“Empty, bah! I’ll just…” Frank opened the door for himself and his dialogue changed direction. “Will ya look at that. Where’d all the stuff go?”

Ian looked at Frank critically. “What was in there?”

“Oh, there was a whole feast, someone musta took it. Damn shame, when a man can’t even open his fridge and get a wholesome breakfast without finding the cupboards bare, so to speak.”

“Did you do this, Frank?” Ian’s tone was accusing, and he meant every word.

“Did Frank do what this time?” Fiona had come downstairs and was rubbing the sleep sand out of her eyes.

“Fridge’s empty.”

“What?” Fiona cried, pushing Frank and Ian both bodily out of the way. “It can’t be- I worked overtime for two weeks to make sure we’d have enough for everyone!”

But the fridge stubbornly refused to show anything on the shelves. 

To her credit, Fiona didn’t cry. Her lip wobbled, and her eyes got a little damp, but after an inordinate amount of time staring at the empty shelves, willing the food she’d bought to reappear, she slammed the door.

“Ok, it’s gonna be fine. We just need to make a plan.”

“I’ll be eating at Sheila’s, so you don’t need to worry about me.” Frank offered magnanimously.

“We weren’t,” Ian and Fiona chorused.

“First, we need a list.” The siblings went to work, writing down everything they’d need to get the dinner off the ground.

With a little Gallagher ingenuity, in the next few hours everyone else in the house was woken up and sent off in every direction to buy, beg, borrow, or (as a last resort) steal the requisite items. 

Ian knew Fiona wouldn’t relax until after dinner had been found, cooked, served, and everyone basically wanted to vomit, so he focused on other ways to help. He took the cleaning spray to each bathroom and gingerly wiped down all the common surfaces, then dug under the stairs to find the vacuum and hit all the rugs in the downstairs. It occupied him for a while so he wouldn’t think about anything else, and Fiona had smiled gratefully at him, which felt like progress, like he was a productive member of the household and not just an unearning mouth to feed, for once.

He decided it was finally a safe time to send a quick text to Mickey, make sure to calm his last-minute nerves. Ian didn’t know for sure Mickey was nervous, but he would be, if the circumstances were reversed. Well, he’d be more anxious that he was about to get murdered for being gay, if he were going to a Milkovich holiday gathering, but still. Ian had been waiting to text him practically all day, but wanted to play it cool, not look like he was basically counting the minutes until he saw Mickey again.

**Ian G (1:15 PM):** Dinner shoud b rdy at 3 ok?

 **Mickey M (1:19 PM):** Yeah

The delay in response _could_ have been innocuous, could have been Mickey being busy, occupied by something healthy. Or it could have been Mickey having internal arguments about whether it was too late to bail.

 **Ian G (1:20 PM):** Its 2 late 4 u to bail

 **Mickey M (1:20 PM):** Not gonna bail on you Gallagher.

 **Mickey M (1:21 PM):** Unless you try feeding me tofurkey or shit

 **Ian G (1:22 PM):** is vegan food a joke 2 u????

 **Mickey M (1:23 PM):** Vegans are a joke to me

 **Ian G (1:24 PM):** ur sponsor is a vegan

 **Mickey M (1:24 PM):** Fuck my sponsor

 **Ian G (1:25 PM):** 👀 ill tell him u said so lol

 **Ian G (1:26 PM):** 3 o clock!!!!!

 **Mickey M (1:26 PM):** Got it. You guys still need that pie?

 **Ian G (1:26 PM):** U have NO idea!!! I will tell you latr

 **Mickey M (1:27 PM):** K

Then Ian just had to kill an hour and half. Suddenly, he realized the house was almost entirely empty, aside from Fiona in the kitchen washing their mis-matched collection of cups and flatware. He spent an uncomfortable few minutes taking a cold shower (Fiona had used up the hot water on the dishes), then trying on and discarding various outfits. That took 20 minutes, and he still had more than an hour left. Looking around, nothing caught his interest: his few books and magazines were all old, and the wifi was too unstable for him to waste his time browsing social media on his phone. His eye fell on his step working guide and notebook. Sighing deeply, he flipped the notebook to the first blank page and looked at the question he’d previously written there. “Have I ever believed that God caused horrible things to happen to me or was punishing me? What were those things?”

 _Obviously_. 

Ian knew it wasn’t logical, that he wasn’t important enough in the grand scheme of things for God to punish him. But the feelings, of being garbage, of being the worst person on the face of the planet, were hard to shake. Even before the situation with Mickey in high school, he’d felt like the bad things in his life were his fault. When he’d been diagnosed with bipolar, it felt like confirmation that he was fundamentally flawed, deserving of no more than some married man’s illicit time, than being only half-related to his siblings, that being gay meant he was unworthy of good things in life. He’d compensated, purposefully, with swagger, flaunting his body and his sexuality as if he had all the confidence in the world. 

When bad things happened to his family, he knew intellectually that it wasn’t because he was a bad person. However, when his using had escalated and he couldn’t contribute money to the house anymore, even though he was eating their food, it was easy to leave. When he was arrested the last time, for trying to hustle an undercover cop into a drug-fueled sex scheme (solicitation, paraphernalia, and intent to distribute) his shame was so deep he wouldn’t even tell the officers his phone number for hours, wallowing in his misery in the holding cell. How he’d gotten out, and back to the drug house was a different, shameful story. But Fiona had heard about his arrest, and come looking for him one last time. 

Maybe Mickey hadn’t gotten clean for him, just stayed in rehab for him, but Ian had gone to rehab and meetings for his family. He still didn’t feel good enough for recovery, didn’t feel worthy. Even Mickey’s attention and obvious interest made him uncertain at times, like Mickey was going to figure out soon enough that he was a piece of trash, that he could do better, that someone else, _anyone else_ , would be able to fuck him better than Ian and his temperamental dick. Michelle would realize he wasn’t smart or a good person-

He punched himself in the head once, then again, harder, trying to get the incessant negative self-talk to stop. His body rocked, back and forth, like he was vibrating with the internal strain. Clearly not in the right state to keep working, Ian threw the notebook onto his bed in frustration, unsatisfied when it made a bare whisper instead of the crash his conflicted mind was calling for. 

If he showed up at dinner looking mopey, he’d have everyone in the house breathing down his neck and counting his meds. Including a very pissy Mickey, who was coming soon, he reminded himself. Just the thought of Mickey in his house, where he could stare at those blue eyes as long as he wanted, was giving him a possessive thrill. That was his uncomfortable dichotomy again, he felt like he didn’t deserve good things but he _wanted_ them desperately nonetheless. Enough perseverating. Mickey was coming in, he checked his watch, twenty-five minutes. 

He heard some clanking and talking from downstairs, indicating food was showing up. Maybe he could help Fiona, or she could help him fill these last minutes of torture before his blue-eyed boy - no, man- arrived.

* * *

People had started filtering into the house, offloading their coats onto a big pile on a chair, and the place was filling up. Ian looked around, but he didn’t see Mickey. Somehow he got sucked into a conversation with Kev and V about the girls’ latest academic achievement (how much could two first graders achieve?) and then he had to look at pictures on V’s phone for a while and by the time he got free it was twenty after and Mickey was nowhere in sight. Ian headed out to the front porch, thinking maybe he’d catch Mickey walking up, but what he found was Mickey, standing at the base of the front steps, being cornered into a conversation of ‘do you remembers’ with Lip. Mickey looked wildly uncomfortable as Lip clapped him on the shoulder, so Ian swooped in to help.

“Hey Mick.” He shot a shy grin at Mickey, who wrinkled his forehead, but the corners of his eyes crinkled, which meant he was happy to see Ian, too.

“You invited this guy? I haven’t seen him in a decade or more!” Lip was already a little drunk and Ian had a moment of concern, had he been wrong to invite a friend from recovery to a party where there was alcohol? 

Mickey’s discomfort, however, seemed to be stemming from Lip’s reminiscing,“Yeah man, Ian invited me, it’s been a hot minute since I saw you. How you been?”

“I’ve been great.” 

“You still with what’s-her-tits? The blonde?”

“Isn’t your sister blonde now?” Ian asked sotto voce, but Mickey and Lip ignored that.

“Karen, yeah. She’s inside helping Fiona with something called turkey dressing.”

“The fuck’s turkey dressing?”

“Some southern version of stuffing, apparently.” Lip took a drag off his cigarette, and then a pull from a flask he slid out of his jacket’s inner pocket. Mistaking Ian and Mickey’s shared glance, he tilted the flask to Ian. “You want?”

“No, thanks, Lip.” Ian waved the flask away, was just going to let it go, but Mickey’s mouth was tight, his shoulders tense, and then the words exploded out. 

“The fuck you think you’re doing, offering that to him!” Mickey smacked the hand Lip was using to hold the flask, sending the container into a pile of sooty snow, spilling the drink.

“What the-” Lip scrambled over to the snowpile and grabbed the flask, hissing as his fingers hit the icy wetness. “That shit’s not cheap, Milkovich!”

Ian reached for Mickey’s hand, lacing their fingers together, willing the fight not to escalate.

_Please, no. Not here._

“He’s fuckin’ bipolar and an addict and you’re offering him liquor? What kinda idiot genius are you, anyway?” Mickey’s tone was cutting, his nostrils flaring with anger. Ian squeezed his hand, and Mickey, wonder of wonders, _squeezed back_. 

_Like he’s reassuring_ **_me_ ** _._

Lip stopped his scrabbling in the snow, glancing over his shoulder, not at Mickey’s venom, but at Ian, who hadn’t said anything but was staring resolutely at the wet pavement under his feet. 

Ian felt deeply ashamed, but at the same time grateful to Mickey. His family generally fixated on his diagnosis and ignored his recovery- they seemed to feel like they’d seen him try things like this before, getting deeply invested quickly, but burning out nearly as fast. 

“Sorry, Ian.” Lip said lamely. “Forgot you didn’t do this shit anymore.”

Mickey snorted, but Ian just led him by the hand up the steps into the house. The display was not lost on Lip, who furrowed his bushy brows, but wisely kept silent.

* * *

Inside, dinner was about to start, so the chaos and shuffling of seating arrangements had begun. The kids were all sitting in the living room at a folding table someone had brought, but the main table in the kitchen had two extensions, one card table, and a hassock from Sheila’s. 

After bodily removing Liam and sending him to the kid’s table (‘But I’m 14! I’m not a kid!’), Mickey and Ian secured seats next to each other at the overflowing table. There were so many adults in the room that the table and kitchen felt tropical even though the heater was on the fritz. With a flourish, Fiona placed the massive turkey in the center of the table, pulled off her oven mitts, and sat between V and Carl, whose immediate instinct was to reach for a bread roll. Fiona slapped his hand away, starting her little prepared speech.

“I’m glad you all made it. It’s time to think about Thanksgiving, and what we’re all thankful for this year.” She looked around, giving each person at the table a moment of eye contact. “This year, I’m thankful for family, my brothers and sister, and our friends who are family too. We couldn’t a done this, pulled this off without you. I didn’t- I wasn’t sure we’d all be here this year.” Her eyes were suspiciously misty and everyone was consciously _not_ looking at Ian. “But I am so glad we all are.” She put one arm around V and the other around Carl, squeezing. “Who wants to go next?”

Sudden and complete silence descended on the room. The kids in the living room were chattering happily, and the sounds of a cartoon on the battered TV was now audible in the kitchen.

Ian glanced at Mickey, who was staring fixedly at his empty dinner plate. 

“I’ll go,” Kev volunteered. “This year I’m thankful for my kids, my bar, and my friends.”

“And your beautiful wife!” V interjected.

“I was gettin’ there! But mostly for my beautiful wife, who is the reason I have my kids and my friends and my bar.” V batted her eyelashes at him as he finished, and he looked proud.

 _Wish I could brag about Mick that way,_ Ian thought a little ruefully. _Not this year, but maybe next year?_

Everyone went around the table, declaring things big and small that they were grateful for.

When it was Karen’s turn, she raised her vape pen, saying “I’m thankful for all these legal drugs,” and let out a high-pitched giggle to the awkward silence that fell.

“Fuck’s sake, Karen, read the room,” Mickey practically spit the words at her. 

“Fuck you, Milkovich! What are you even doing here, anyway?” She half stood up in her chair and swayed, before Lip put his arm around her waist, pulling her down.

“I invited him.” Ian declared. “And I’m thankful he’s here.” Before Mickey could freak out, he added, “I’m thankful for all of us being together today. Last year-” his voice cracked, “last year I couldn’t be here. And I missed you guys so much.” He’d been in a trap house, high off his ass, from Halloween through to May basically, and didn’t remember any of the holidays that year. “So I’m thankful for a lot.”

That just left Mickey, and all eyes at the table turned to him, as the tips of his ears pinkened. Ian let his hand rest on Mickey’s warm thigh under the table, just letting his fingers rest on the inside curve as Mickey spoke. “I- uh, me too.”

Ian grinned, and flexed his fingers, sweeping them up and down Mickey’s thigh. 

“That all, Mickey?” Fiona asked.

“Thankful for the food. Ain’t - ain’t seen a Thanksgiving like this that wasn’t on TV before. Thanks for invitin’ me.” The hiccup in the middle of the speech had happened when Ian swept his long fingers up the warm seam of Mickey’s leg, where it joined his torso, all hidden beneath the table. As soon as he was done talking, Mickey’s hand grabbed Ian’s wrist tightly. 

“Think that’s funny?” he muttered under the conversation of the rest of the table who had dug into the food. “Teasin’ me?”

“It’s only a tease if I don’t follow through, Mick.”

Mickey gaped at him, and Ian felt the old confidence flowing back. He knew how to fluster Mickey, how to get him hot and hard.

“Thought we weren’t gonna- weren’t doin’ that yet.” Mickey raised his eyebrows to emphasize _that_ meant fucking.

“Oh, we’re not. It’s only our first date.” Ian's tone was airy. He was totally teasing Mickey now, it was too easy.

Mickey released Ian’s wrist to take the massive bowl of mashed potatoes being passed to him, then held the bowl for Ian to take a spoonful. It was an odd, generous gesture, and Ian was touched, so he decided to stop the tempting.

“Missed my hug when you got here is all, Mick.”

Mickey was spooning his own mashed potatoes, and paused for a moment, searching Ian’s face before he replied simply, “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

After everyone had gorged themselves on too much turkey and carbs, and before anyone had room for dessert, there was an unspoken agreement to disperse for a little while, take a walk, take a shit, take a nap, to make room for more food. 

Ian was in the kitchen, making an effort to start the cleanup, packaging leftovers into containers and bags for everyone to take home, and Mickey was sitting on the back stoop with Debbie, smoking.

Every few minutes Ian would casually walk by the open door (it really was absurdly hot in that kitchen) and overhear snatches of the conversation. It sounded like Mickey was giving Debbie advice about a- girl? It wasn’t a shock that Debbie asked Mickey for suggestions, she would talk to anyone if she was in a chatty mood, but it was a little surprising that Mickey sounded like he was taking her seriously and giving real answers. 

Suddenly, Debbie’s voice seemed louder, even though Ian was on the other side of the kitchen.

“So are you sleeping with my brother again?” 

“Uh, no?” Mickey sounded confronted and defensive.

“That a question or an answer?”

“An answer. Smartass.”

“Learned from the best. You gonna break his heart?”

“Fuck! I- it’s not like last time. He- I mean, we, this thing we got-”

“Your meetings?”

“Yeah, our meetings. We’re not- we can’t. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Some shit about no new relationships in the first year of recovery.”

“Sounds dumb.” Debbie assessment was quick and direct.

“No kidding.”

“Just don’t hurt him, ok?”

“Look kid, there’s nothing happening right now. Nothin’ happening means no one gets hurt.”

“Huh, shows what _you_ know. Sometimes ‘nothing happening’ hurts the worst.”

“Eh, you ain’t wrong, kid.” Mickey’s voice sounded philosophical, like he actually did understand.

Ian moved away from the kitchen door where he’d been lurking and eavesdropping, both wanting to hear more and wanting not to get caught listening in.

Dessert was more of an impromptu affair, eaten standing around, or sitting in the living room, everyone holding plates in one hand and forks in the other. The pie Mickey had brought was a success (‘It’s just from the Jewel,’ he’d protested when complimented.) 

As people finished their sweets, struggled into their coats, collected their grocery bags full of leftovers and waved goodbye from the front stairs, Ian watched, waiting. Finally, the house was just Gallaghers and Mickey, and he had slid his coat on and was trying to avoid taking leftovers. Fiona was insisting.

“Everyone else who brought somethin took stuff home! You said you ain’t eaten like this before, and Thanksgiving tastes best the day after!”

“Jesus christ woman, fine, give me the damn leftovers!” Mickey took the bag as Fiona smiled, then huffily headed to the front door, before stopping to look for Ian.

_When did he stop being glued to my side tonight?_

Ian slid up behind him and put a hand on the puffy black coat’s shoulder. The hood was lined in a fuzzy tan material meant perhaps to look like fur, from a far distance and with a high myopia.

“Whadya think?”

“Of your family? Fuckin’ psychos, all a you.”

“No. Of our _date_.” Ian gave him the slowest, softest smile he could muster, trying to beam his affection for the man through his face.

Some of it must have gotten through, because Mickey looked around once, nervously, then grinned up at him, blue eyes bright.

_That grin. I missed that._

“Heck, man, that was the best first date I ever had.”

“Mick.” Ian kept his tone serious. “Was that the only first date you ever had?”

“C’mere.” Mickey dodged the question ( _of course it was, Ian knew it_ ) and dropped his bag of leftovers. He held his hands out by his hips, fingers spread in invitation, which Ian gladly took. He wrapped Mickey up in his arms, blowing the fuzz of the hood out of his nose, before settling his cheek against the side of Mickey’s head.

He thought seriously about sliding his lips down, to that spot behind Mickey’s ear, where he used to be so sensitive, then to his soft lips. Ian considered it, but then released the thought. He focused on the warmth in his arms, on the unfamiliar comfort of physical comfort without implicit sexuality. His nose nuzzled into Mickey’s dark hair, inhaling deeply.

“You sniffin’ me again, Gallagher?” Mickey’s voice was a little muffled by Ian’s chest in the embrace, but neither of them made a move to adjust or release.

“Smells good.” Ian’s voice was low, pitched just for Mickey’s ears.

“It’s Mandy’s shampoo, that’s all I could find in the shower.” This struck Ian as unaccountably funny, the idea of Mickey showering, trying to look nice for him, and realizing he was out of shampoo, deciding to just use Mandy’s shit instead. The giggles bubbled out and Mickey leaned back to glare up at him, eyebrows drawn down. 

“It’s just-” Ian could barely get the words out, “-Not _you-_ the shampoo- Mandy’s-” and he dissolved again. 

Mickey seemed to relax, seemed to understand now that Ian wasn’t laughing at him, even offering a cheeky grin. “Yeah, I smell like ‘White Grapefruit and Mosa Mint,’ whatever the fuck those are. Thought grapefruits were pink? Whatever. I smell good.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Ian and melted back into the embrace.

Ian shrugged as he enfolded Mickey, he didn’t know the answer either. He knew he liked Mickey like this though, relaxed, snarky, and happy. It was genuinely different from how they’d been when they were kids. Mickey, without the toxicity of his father, without any drugs in his system, was still never going to be a head-in-the-clouds romantic optimist. But he did seem to be cuddly, and comfortable with some public hand-holding. He was talking about his feelings, and that alone made Ian want to cry, knowing that at some point they’d have to discuss the past- what had happened to them. But not tonight. Tonight he had a warm Mickey in his arms and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I've been doing probably too much research on Chemsex, which is what Ian was engaged in, hookups under the influence, often in exchange for housing. The primary drugs used are GHB (a common club and date rape drug) and methamphetamine. Early in use, they cause hyper-sexuality and relaxation, but as use progresses, people become dependent on the substance to have sex at all, and mental side effects like paranoia, severe depression, and anxiety also increase. If you want to know more, you can read this link to see what Ian, and will, go through: https://sexandrelationshiphealing.com/for-addicts/chemsex-addiction/  
> 2\. As a result of #1, Ian's anxiety is a symptom of his post-acute-withdrawal syndrome, NOT his bipolar. PAWS is a cluster of symptoms often associated with early withdrawal, that last for up to 12 months into the recovery process. These symptoms include Irritability and hostility, Depression, Anxiety, Low energy and fatigue, Sleep disruption, including insomnia, Focus issues, Lack of libido, and physical pain. These symptoms often cause addicts to return to using, in an attempt to alleviate them; however, using again just prolongs the duration of PAWS, resetting the clock, basically.  
> 3\. This fic is set about 10 years after Season 3. Mickey and Ian's lives didn't intersect again until we meet them in this fic, but many of the same events happened to the Gallagher family.  
> 4\. Step 3 can be really hard for some people. I'm trying to convey that for our boys, without hammering you all with recovery-speak too much.  
> 5\. Turkey dressing is something I hadn't heard of until a cousin's gf brought it Thanksgiving. It's real.  
> 6\. Some people in recovery avoid all social events where alcohol is served, while others do not. It is a personal choice; however, going to ars or the like can be a trigger, or a test and are a poor choice for many. The saying is if you go to the barbershop often enough, eventually you'll get a haircut.  
> 7\. Trap house/Crack house/Flop house. Usually an abandoned building where addicts can get high or stay without having to pay money. It's an uncomfortable existence, to say the least. People die, frequently, and their drugs and personal effects are taken by whoever is left.  
> 8\. Jewel, or Jewel Osco, is a grocery chain in the Chicago area, according to Google.


	14. How it Works: Step 3 Part 3 (Mickey) - December 5th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey, Mandy, and Iggy have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Ch 14 was one long chapter with three parts, but I am splitting it up, so we're going to get at least two chapters in a row from Mickey's POV here. 
> 
> If you or someone you know is struggling with substance use, please visit NA.org for help.  
> All literature and material is property of the NA Fellowship Intellectual Property Trust and I am borrowing it.  
> If I missed a definition, please leave a comment. If you like the fic, please leave a comment. If you hate the fic, please don't read.

Thanksgiving had been yet another new thing for Mickey. Being clean, having a sponsor (which felt a _little_ like having a friend), going on a date, it was just _weird_. Like, he was the same person he’d always been, but his life was so different. Same house, but now, through his determined efforts, it wasn’t a shithole. Or, it was less of a shithole. He’d fixed and cleaned and scrubbed and thrown away enough things that it felt more roomy, lighter. Mandy had joked about it, then asked him to tackle her room next, which had surprised him. Iggy had offered to help, which was the bigger shock.

The three of them were in Mandy’s room: she was going through her closet and tossing clothes into a giant black trash bag that was already full to bursting. Iggy and Mickey were working on her door frame; it no longer had only a passing connection to the wall- they’d removed it entirely and were now almost done nailing it back in the right spot. 

“Ugh, I think that’s all of it.” Mandy threw a black tulle skirt that had a huge rip in it out of the closet, shoved it in the bag, and then sat down heavily on her bed. 

“You sure there aren’t any bodies back there? Lost gold?” Mickey was teasing her, but he kind of didn’t want this moment to end. It felt weird, but in a good way. Like when he had finally gotten a rotten tooth pulled: the pain was gone, and there was a new hole in his mouth to explore with his tongue, infection gone. Plus, the only other task he had to do today was stepwork, and he was avoiding it. “You want me to take a look?”

  
Mandy gave him a curious look, and gestured with one hand. “Be my guest, bro.”

Iggy sat next to Mandy on her bed, reaching into his shirt pocket to produce a joint. Something gave him pause and he seemed to ponder the idea slowly, and then slid it back in his pocket. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. He didn’t need a contact high or to smell like weed next time he went in for a probation and monitoring check, so Iggy smoking less wasn’t a terrible thing. He pushed back the remaining clothing hanging in the closet and found the old hiding hole.

“ ‘Member when we all hid back there from Dad?” Mandy’s voice was low, and her eyes saw the past.

“Which time?” Mickey’s voice emanated from the depths of the closet; he had bent over to see the crayon drawings etched on the closet’s back wall.

“All the times. When Mom was sick, when Colin went to juvie, when you got thrown out of little league.” Mandy could have continued, but they all knew the list, every time they’d hid in the dark, scared for their lives.

“We were just kids, man. What the fuck was he thinking?” Mickey had sat down, back pressed against the crayoning, recalling his father’s misdeeds. 

“When you guys were really little, like when you were both still in diapers and Mom had been gone for two days, you’d used your shit to draw on the walls of your room. Cause he basically locked you in there, the two of you. And then he got mad at me for not watching you- broke my fucking collar bone that day. He wasn’t even mad that you were screaming your heads off, hungry and shitty, just that you’d fucked up the wall.”

Mandy stared at Iggy in surprise. That was probably the most she’d heard him say- ever.

“How old were you, Ig?” Mickey’s voice was inflectionless, and without seeing his face, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. 

Iggy thought for a minute, “If Mandy was a baby, and you were like, two, then I was- four or five? I musta been five.”

“Jeeesus. Five year-olds are supposed to be in school, not taking care of two babies and not getting the crap kicked out of them by their father.” Mandy nudged Iggy with her shoulder, but he kept staring at his hands in his lap.

Mickey appeared in the closet door, hands in his pockets. “I don’t remember that one, but I do remember you wearing that dumb sling for like, a whole year, cause I was trying to learn how to hold a pencil, and you kept trying to show me, but you couldn’t because the bastard had broken your right hand.”

Iggy held up his right hand, wiggling his fingers. The last two didn’t move in sync, remaining mostly motionless as the others moved. “I wore it for a year because Dad didn’t want to pay money to have the cast cut off, and by the time I found someone with a circular saw and balls, there was some kinda damage. Can’t feel shit in those two fingers still. And the smell under there- fuck, that was bad. I think Joey even puked.”

“How is our dear brother?” Mandy’s tone indicated she didn’t have any real interest, though Mickey was curious.

“Eh, Joey’s ok. He’s still in the pen; it’s gonna be a while.”

“How long’s ‘a while’?” Mickey’s question was more pointed.

_If Joey got out, and tried to restart their business, Mickey would have to - fuck, was he really thinking about moving out so he could stay clean, who was he turning into?_

“Sentence was eighteen to thirty, but with time served and shit, he’s got eight to ten more left.”

_Fuckin’ relief._

“That’s a relief.”

Mandy and Iggy both looked at him where he stood in the closet’s doorway questioningly.

“He’s our brother but- I don’t think it’d be good for him to be here, now.” Mickey’s explanation fell flat and he knew it. He stepped fully back into the room and Mandy let out a snort, glancing at Iggy who grinned.

“What are you morons laughing at?”

“Mickey, look at yourself.” Mandy waved a hand at him and laughed.

Furrowing his brow, Mickey did a slow circle, when it dawned on him. “Oh, shit.”

“Yup,” Iggy agreed. 

Mandy’s smile was huge, toothy, and real. She only smiled like that with people she trusted, never with the guys she slept with, never with their father or other brothers. “You totally just came out of the closet to us, dude.”

Mickey’s guts clenched. 

_Am I gonna have to… How much is this going to hurt?_

Iggy held his hands up in surrender, “Not exactly news to me. Nice to hear it official-like though.”

“Since when, bitch?” Mickey’s eyes flashed, and his stance got tight, ready. 

It was Iggy’s turn to roll his eyes. “Lemme see, there were all the gun magazines in the bathroom by your room with certain pages ‘well-worn’, the way you looked like you were gonna puke when I talked about getting sucked off by Angie, the toys hidden in the loose floorboard in your room-”

“-The fuck were you doing in my floorboards?”

“Looking for weed, what else? I thought you had a stash, so I searched your room. Found the loose board. Knew you wouldn’t wanna say shit, so I put it back. Oh, and the time Dad found you gettin’ fucked by that ginger queer. That was about when we all figured it out.”

“And you still let him-” Mickey bit off his words. The thing with the Russian hooker hadn’t been Iggy’s fault. It hadn’t been Ian’s fault. It hadn’t even been his fault. It was his giant homophobic prick of a father’s fault, through and through,

“We didn’t know that was his plan.” Iggy’s voice was so quiet Mickey had to strain to hear him over the sound of Mandy’s rapid breathing in the quiet room. “He just called and asked for her, and I figured he needed his dick sucked and she was the unlucky bitch who he’d picked.” He finally looked directly at Mickey, “I woulda- maybe gotten lost, or had an accident, or some shit. Maybe told him she had crabs or the syph.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped him,” Mandy muttered. “He was so pissed- I’ve never seen him so mad.”

Mickey knew he had a choice. He’d been running away from his brothers and sister as if they were the same as Terry, But Mandy and Iggy, at least, weren’t Terry. They hadn’t stopped him, sure, but just like Iggy tryin’ to protect babies when he was still kinda a baby, they’d been kids who couldn’t protect a kid. 

“He woulda found some other whore. The longer he had to wait, the more time he had to beat on us. So if you’d gotten lost, it woulda been worse for- for me. I ain’t mad at you, Ig.”

  
“Yeah?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Still gay though?”

“He’s super gay,” Mandy interjected before Mickey could respond. “Went-to-a-costume-party dressed-as-a-dog gay.”

“Those meetings you go to, they know?” Iggy sounded genuinely curious.

“Uh- kinda? They all hug, so that shits normal there.” Mickey was trying to at least salvage his image of himself as cool.

“You hug everyone there?” Mandy’s tone was blatantly disbelieving.

“Well, no.” He squirmed internally, thinking about _honesty_ and _open mindedness_ , “Just one person.”

“A guy?” Iggy was curious too now.

“Just the one guy, yes, ok? We’re like a big soft fucking joke to everyone, cause he hugs everyone and I only hug him and it’s super weird.” The frustration spilled out of Mickey’s mouth.

“Who is he? Can you tell us? Or is that the anonymous thing?”

“Yeah, can’t tell you. Anonymity is- I don’t know, some big fucking deal there. Let’s say he’s someone I already knew.”

“That’s all we’re getting? Get the fuck out of my room with that shit if you’re not dishing the dirt.” Mandy stood up and handed the overflowing garbage bag to Iggy, who accepted it, and then looked confused.

“Wait, what am I supposed to do?”

“It’s trash,” Mandy explained, as if it was obvious.

“You could donate it.” Mandy and Iggy goggled at Mickey as he spoke. “There’s a drop off bin at the church, I can take it tonight.”

“What, are they gonna sell my old ripped shit?”

“Bitch, please. No one’s paying for your trash. It gets donated to rehabs and places like that. Remember the outfit I came home in? All donated shit.”

“No kidding? OK, sure.” At Mandy’s acquiescence, Iggy thrust the black bag into Mickey’s arms and left the room. Mickey didn’t mind, he knew his brother was being respectful in his own way by leaving the room to go light up.

Mandy was still on the conversational track of ‘Dirty Mickey’. “Yeah, you were still cleaner than I’d seen you in like, years. Scrubbed pink and shit. I forgot you had freckles but then I saw you that night you got home-”

“The fuck are you talkin about? I took showers before.” Mickey was getting offended.

“Mickey, you stank so bad you couldn’t smell yourself, at the end. And before that, I dunno, you always seemed to have a layer of dirt and crap on you.”

“Well, taking a leisurely shower when Terry Milkovich was on the warpath is luxury I didn’t fuckin have.”

“Maybe so,” Mandy admitted. “But you’re so _different_ now.”

“The fuck you mean by that?” Mickey was afraid, afraid she meant he was weak, or soft, or powerless.

“Relax, asswipe. I mean, like you don’t drink or smoke weed, which is weird as shit. But you also take a shower every day.”

It was more like twice a day but Mickey wasn’t going to admit that. “So?”

“So, it means you’re changing.” Mandy was back to sitting on her bed, folding a few old tee-shirts she’d decided to keep. “What happens if you change so much I don’t know you anymore?”

Mickey sat next to her on the bed. He was feeling vulnerable, exposed, and the urge to insult and run was strong, but he resisted, deciding to go with, “Never gonna happen.”

“No?” Mandy met his eyes, blue met blue. 

“Nah, you’re the one who’s gettin’ out of here. Got a diploma, got a job, no record. Proud of you, kid.”

Mandy shoved his shoulder, so hard that he almost fell off the bed. “What the fuck, Mandy?”

“Say it again!”

“Oww! What? What the fuck?”

“Say you’re proud of me!” She shoved him so hard he had to stand up to stay off the floor.

“Jesus, woman, ok. I’m proud of you. Happy now?” 

She sniffled.

_Oh no._

The sniffle progressed, and now Mandy was just crying, wiping snot from her nose with the back of her hand, turning her body away from him as if she were ashamed.

He stood in the middle of the room, even more uncertain of what to say or do. 

_Do I leave? Kick her ass?_

Then a thought occurred.

_Gallagher would know what to do._

That prompted more. 

_What would Gallagher do?_

Mickey knew or he could guess what Gallagher would be doing in this situation.

_He’d get close to her._

Mickey sat right next to Mandy, their thighs touching, 

_He’d touch her, make her feel safe._

Tentatively, possibly for the first time in his life, Mickey put his arm around his sister. At first her shoulders were tense, resisting. Mickey just held on, didn’t let her create a wall. 

_He’d say something soft._

“Uh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that?”

Big sniff, sucking up all the mucus, sounding fucking gross, “Fuck you, Mickey.”

“What?” 

_What now?_

“I’m proud of you too.”

That was not what he expected her to say. No one ever said that to him, he was pretty sure no one had ever felt pride about him, let alone praised him for anything.

Mandy flounced out of the now-working door before it could get weird. _Weirder_.

Mickey stood alone in Mandy’s room for a moment, bag in arms. The door was back on the frame, the floor was actually visible instead of buried under clothing and debris. There was no one in the house who could hurt him, at that moment. 

He thought, for a fleeting minute, about saying a prayer. Thought he should, someone else might in this moment. The thought passed. He **didn’t** do that shit. He might have whispered, “ _Thanks_ ,” to the empty room as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Again, a sponsor is not always a friend. Some of the best sponsors aren't even very friendly. But I think Mickey needs the experience of friendship, so AJ is totally his friend, even if he doesn't know it yet.  
> 2\. Contact high- totally real. And if you test positive on any level for drugs at your probation update meetings, you go to jail. Even if you smell like weed and don't test high, you can STILL go to jail over a made-up infraction. The idea is to force people on probation to stay away from those using or in that type of lifestyle. But if you're like Mickey, that's basically everyone you know.  
> 3\. Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of the all official NA traditions. It's a BIG deal not to talk about who you see at a meeting, or what you heard there. If you see someone from a meeting out in public, you're supposed to magically mutually decide whether to talk, and how to explain how you know each other. Suffice to say, I have a LOT of friends who 'do volunteer work with me.'  
> 4\. Rehabs are indeed one place that the clothing donating in those giant dumpsters goes to. Some people coming into rehab have only the clothes on their back, and those are often in poor condition, unsalvageable.  
> 5\. I know the idea of Mickey praying is wildly OOC. But the idea of him developing a sense of gratitude is not, and that's what I'm trying to portray here. We're not going anywhere NEAR organized religion, don't worry. We're on a different route, because there are many paths to recovery. :)  
> 6\. Honesty, openmindedness, and willingness are the HOW, like how the program of Narcotics Anonymous works. They're three of the most basic and accessible spiritual principles, so I'll be hitting them some more.


	15. How it Works: Step 3 Part 4 (Mickey) - December 5-8th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and AJ go on an outing. Ian has a rough night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various notes to be found at the end. Step three is going to stretch out a bit, because it's such a turning point for so many people in recovery.
> 
> If you, or someone you know, needs help with a substance use disorder, please visit NA.org 
> 
> If I have missed explaining a recovery concept, or made any other errors, leave me a comment so I can fix it!

AJ was in the park. Well, Mickey was too, but only because AJ had called him up and said “I’m taking Maggie to the dog park, I’ll pick you up on the way.”

Maggie was AJ’s elderly, diabetic, golden retriever. AJ was seriously obsessed with the dog. The SUV had a special ramp for Maggie, special back seat covers and special doggie-seatbelt harness. 

Mickey hadn’t actually met Maggie in person yet, but he’d been subjected to literally hundreds of still shots of the dog. Nearly every day, AJ would text him a new shot of Maggie doing normal mundane doggie-shit. 

‘Maggie eating breakfast.’

‘Mags on her bed’ (That one showed Maggie flopped in the middle of AJ’s queen sized bed.)

‘My two children’ (AJ’s literal son scowling under a beanie and Maggie giving a doggy-grin at his feet.)

It was a lot, but otherwise the guy seemed normal so Mickey tolerated it, sending meaningless positive emojis in response to the pictures, but not commenting. He wasn’t sure why AJ thought he’d be up for this outing- except he totally was. He’d been weirded out lately at home since the conversation with Iggy and Mandy, and his impromptu coming out, feeling less at ease in his own skin than ever. He’d been self-consciously evaluating his every move, wondering what Iggy and Mandy were thinking and noticing, especially his shower schedule.

They were sitting on a bench in the pale December sunlight, in a dog park Mickey hadn’t known was this close to his house. Mickey’d never been to a dog park before, hadn’t been sure what to expect- roaming packs of flea-bitten wretches, shit everywhere, looking to gnaw on his ankles, perhaps.

Turns out, a dog park was a bastion of the coddled, the groomed, the giants and the tea-cups. Maggie was wearing a little doggie-sweater, and had walked as quickly as she could over to sniff a common pee spot as soon as AJ had let her off the leash, then found a friendly boxer pup who had a dead stick to share.

The two men weren’t really talking: AJ was sucking on a massive cigar, and Mickey was scuffing his shoes in the dirty snow, when a skinny brown and white dog trotted over and flopped at Mickey’s feet, belly up. AJ looked at the dog, then at Mickey, “Well, she clearly wants you to pet her.”

“Won’t she- I mean, aren’t you like, not supposed to pet the stomach of dogs you don’t know?”

Mickey had exactly zero experience with dogs as pets; his knowledge was limited to what he’d gleaned from  _ Pitbulls and Parolees _ . 

“Might.” AJ’s voice was calm. “Might not. Worst case scenario, I’ll drive you to the ER.”

Mickey eyed the man and then the dog warily. He knew from the show that dogs rarely bit unprovoked, and the ones who were known to probably wouldn’t be off leash in a dog park. But still…

The dog cocked her head, she seemed to be waiting for him to act. Her eyes were pale gray, totally incongruous in her mostly brown face. Mickey bent at the waist, settling in a half crouch, and gave a first, hesitant pat. The dog opened her mouth and he drew back his hand immediately, but she just settled into a wide doggy grin, and thwapped her tail on the ground, like she was encouraging him. He stroked her belly a few times, still cautious, then progressed to rubbing. The dog’s tail kept up the rapid thumping on the dirt, and when he rubbed in just the right spot, she squeezed her eyes shut in doggy-joy.

“Looks like you’re a natural,” AJ observed.

“Or she’s desperate,” Mickey returned. The dog’s short coat was clean, but she was fairly thin, bones and old healing cuts visible. 

A young woman wearing a floral hijab was walking over purposefully, and Mickey pulled back his hand like he’d been caught doing something wrong. The dog’s tail stopped wagging, and she rolled onto her sternum, looking up at him, wondering.

“Hi! I’m Zara!” The young woman, who Mickey could now see had on an orange volunteer-type vest, seemed way too excited to talk to them. AJ took the onus of the conversation on, after an awkward pause.

“Hi there. I’m AJ and this is my friend, Mickey.”

_ My friend?  _

I t would probably just be weird to say sponsee, and have to explain shit, Mickey decided. It didn't _mean_ anything. Not really.

Undeterred by Mickey’s silence, the young woman launched into a long winded explanation that boiled down to the fact that she was a volunteer with a local dog rescue. They took all the adoptable dogs to the dog park once a month or so each, both to get used to the place and to try and attract the eyes of adopters. She looked at Mickey as she explained this last part, but he had gone back to rubbing the dog’s soft belly.

“And so this is  [ Tina ](https://www.petfinder.com/dog/tina-48014393/il/chicago/alive-rescue-il537/?referrer_id=b81199f5-020a-4184-a6aa-a446871c7a50) , and she’s about four years old. She just came to us, so we’re still trying to get weight on her, and this is her first time at the park with us. She’s usually pretty shut down, but she really likes you!”

“Can’t get a dog, sorry.” Whether Mickey said this to Zara or to Tina was unclear. 

“Oh, ok, that’s cool.” Zara was silent for a moment.

AJ elbowed Mickey. 

_ WTF? _

“Mickey here was just sayin how he needed something to fill his time, like a hobby. Does your group need volunteers?” 

Mickey glared at AJ, he hadn’t said shit about the hobby thing for a month. AJ was like an elephant though, he remembered every conversation and detail. If he claimed he didn’t, it was probably a ruse to make Mickey remember or explain something to himself. So Mickey had known the hobby thing was still on the table, he’d just kind of hoped AJ had changed his mind, or something.

The woman, Zara, clapped her hands together and held them under her chin. “Oh my goodness, that’s amazing, we totally do need volunteers! And it’s not all, like, cleaning up poop, if you were worried about that.”

Mickey hadn’t been, but now he kind of was.

She continued. “It’s also walking them, and giving them baths, and teaching them basic commands and stuff.”

Mickey had one hand rubbing Tina’s belly, and brought the other up to pet her silky ear. Dogs’ ears were his favorite part to touch, when he got the chance, which hadn’t been often in his life. They were always warm, and soft, but still with structure underneath.

“And what’s the time commitment like?” AJ knew the right questions to ask, it seemed. 

“You just sign up for as many hours as you want, or, you know, just a few. And,” she glanced at Mickey’s knuckle tattoos, “there’s no, like, background check, aside from animal abuse.”

“I’d never hurt an animal,” Mickey’s temper had flared.

“Right, obviously, of course not.” Zara was stammering, his overreaction had surprised her and now he had to fix it, somehow.

“I, uh, I like animals a lot. And dogs. So do you have a- like, a business card?”

“Totally!” She dug around in her pockets before coming out with a small paper card that had the rescue’s contact information on it. “I really hope you call, Mickey! I mean- Tina hopes so!” 

The woman was so earnest Mickey wondered if she really was from Chicago, but figured she was Northside privilege all the way, “Yeah, ok.”

After Zara had gone back to the other side of the park to check on another dog she’d brought, Mickey looked at AJ. 

“I’m gonna call.”

“Ok, man. I’m not saying you have to, but it seems like it might be a good fit.”

“If there’s dog shit to clean, I’m outta there.”

“Fair enough. You could just adopt this dog.”

“Me? A dog?” Mickey’s brain was stymied by the thought.

“Why not you?” AJ’s inquiry was harmless in and of itself, but the implications were heavy.

Mickey sputtered, “But I’m-” He waved his hands vaguely, trying to indicate instability, insecurity, poverty, confusion. 

“You’re in recovery. You’re in the care of a power greater than yourself, and at some point, you will have the chance to trust in that. But for now, you trust that I have your back, right?”

“I- I guess?” Mickey had deliberately not thought about that, that if he did something dumb, went to jail, AJ would still be there, sending him shitty letters and paying $0.16 a minute to talk to his stupid ass. But the guy was fucking volunteering to be there, if Mickey needed him. And even if Mickey didn’t adopt this dog,  _ Tina _ , who named a dog  _ Tina _ , he thought AJ would still help him, if he needed. If he asked.

“Usually, I’d have you start with a plant. But you don’t seem like a ‘plants and flowers’ kinda guy. And you’re doing fine taking care of your house and your siblings and yourself.”

Mickey’s face was carefully blank while he thought the issue through; AJ seemed to understand, and let silence rest between them.

_ Mandy and Iggy would love this fuzzball. So would Gallagher. And AJ could take us to the dog park a few times a week. But the cost of food, and god, what if she gets hurt? Vets are crazy expensive… _

“I don’t know if I have the cash, man.” Admitting that was hard. His whole life Mickey had denied what he wanted, because admitting you wanted something was giving the world a thing to take away from you, to hurt you with. Saying he wanted this dog, but couldn’t pay for it, it felt like admitting he was weak in a different way.

“You could foster her!” Zara’s voice was bright and shocking: Mickey jumped to his feet, startling Tina as he turned to face Zara, ready to go on the offensive against this girl.

_ Where the fuck had she come from? _

AJ had been surprised too, but now he was laughing into his beard: Mickey glared at him with a raised eyebrow before realizing Zara was still talking.

“Sorry, I was coming back to pick Tina up so we could go and I overheard you- I think your fostering Tina would be better than you volunteering, even! We provide all the food and pay for any vet care until she gets adopted. You just take care of her and love her.”

“I- Yeah.”

_ S _ _ ay yes. Just try it.  _

“Yeah, I wanna do that.”

“Ok, cool! There’s an application online, and where it says references, cause you have to put at least two, you can put me down- I can see how great you are with animals!” Her relentless optimism was giving Mickey a headache, but he made an effort not to bite her head off. 

“So I fill out the application, then what?”

“Then we do a home visit in the next week or so, and call your references. It’s gonna be awesome, can’t wait to hear from you!” She’d clipped the leash onto Tina’s collar while she was talking, and was now encouraging the dog away from Mickey. It was a hard sell, made harder because Mickey’s fingers still itched to rub the skinny dog’s coat for another hour or two.

Once she managed, Maggie wandered back to AJ, flopping down at his feet. 

“Looks like somebody had a good time.” AJ patted the golden’s head, then looked at Mickey. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah man. I’ll fill the application out tonight.”

“Good plan. Maybe ask about changing her name though.”

“No kidding! Who the fuck names a dog  _ Tina _ ?”

* * *

AJ drove them to Ian’s homegroup that night, and for once the stars aligned; even after stopping for gas (Mickey offered to pay and AJ waved him off, as usual) they were still 40 minutes early to the meeting.

Strolling up, Mickey started looking for Gallagher’s hair and head above everyone at the entrance. But as soon as he saw him, Mickey could tell Ian was having a bad day. Instead of joyously hugging every person as they walked up, Ian was withdrawn, his attention fixed on some internal discomfort. People were giving him worried looks, keeping their distance. 

This could be just one shitty day, it could be a full-blown depressive episode. Or he could be using.

Mickey certainly wasn’t going to force the guy to hug him, but he still walked up, giving Ian the choice, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

“Hey, Gallagher.”

“Hey, Mick.” A lock of unwashed red hair lay flopped over Ian’s eyes, and his shoulders were hunched into the plaid flannel he wore against the chilly air. 

_ Was he high? Or coming down? _

“You doin’ ok?”

“‘Not high. Just- ‘m fine.”

“You don’t look so fine. What- what can I do, whadya need?” Mickey gut instinct was to leave, or maybe hit someone for Ian. But there was no one to hit here, and running, while tempting, clearly wouldn’t help. He hoped someday it wouldn’t be his first thought.

Ian shrugged helplessly. 

_ How can I fix this? What would Gallagher do, if I were the one hurting? _

It finally came to him. 

“You- you want a hug?”

Finally,  _ finally _ , Ian met his eyes and gave a tiny nod. Ever so carefully, Mickey got into his personal space, putting one hand gently on the small of Ian’s back, the other in between his shoulders. Ian gratefully leaned into it, bending until his face was buried in Mickey’s neck, snuffling lightly. It was  [ the most intimate position ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/02/96/89/0296898f171fd1d72214bf0f29494c93.jpg) they’d been in since- well, for a hot minute, and of course it was in front of 30 or so addicts, as per usual. 

Mickey slid one hand to the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him in and keeping him close. Everything in Mickey wanted to explode outwards- yell at the curious eyes, hide Ian away someplace safe, not show Ian’s weakness, or his own tenderness. He stayed put. 

He breathed in the smell of  _ Ian _ , felt the man’s damp breath behind his ear, both sad and a little hot. Thought about the last words he’d said to him, back then. ‘ _Don’t_.’ 

_ Don’t leave me. Don’t give up on me like I did. I am sorry. Don’t stop. _

Ian said something, bringing Mickey back to the present moment, but his lips were mashed into Mickey’s neck and it came out low and garbled, so Mickey leaned back, keeping his hands on Ian’s skin for comfort. 

“What’s that, Mumbles?”

“I wanna go home, Mick.”

Mickey looked around, unsure. They needed to get their papers signed, and the meeting was just about to start-

The older woman he often saw with Ian stood nearby, watching, and when he looked at her, she made a bee-line for them. She put a gentle hand on Ian’s arm.

“You ok, kiddo?”

“He look ok to you?” Mickey’s tone was snappy, but Michelle only returned his look with empathy. Mickey relented, a little embarrassed by his tone, “I think it’s his- ya know, the bipolar. He’s not high.” It was somehow very important Ian’s sponsor heard that from him, even if he wasn’t totally positive Ian wasn’t fucked up. He’d never rat the kid out.

Michelle nodded, indicating Ian’s mental illness wasn’t news to her. “Maybe you guys should take some time, go somewhere quiet.”

“I don’t-” It was hard for Mickey to grit out the admission, “I didn’t drive here, I got a ride.”

“I’ll go grab AJ, he can take you guys home, ok?”

Mickey nodded, confused as to why she would help them skip a meeting, but grateful that she was going to get AJ.

With their sponsors’ help, Mickey and Ian ended up in the backseat of AJ’s SUV as he drove them back to Mickey’s house. It wasn’t the Gallagher home, but Mickey hoped it would be ok, quiet. Ian was curled into Mickey’s side, and Mickey just kept stroking his hair. He was trying to remember if Mandy had said she was working tonight, but when they arrived, the house was dark. Mickey had to peel Ian off of him to unlock the door, and then waved AJ off. 

AJ made the universal hand signal for a phone, lifting his thumb and pinky to his ear and mouthing ‘Call me later.’ Mickey nodded, then focused on getting Ian into the living room and onto the couch. Ian wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t walk, but he didn’t want to stop touching Mickey, like he would start to shiver if Mickey wasn’t keeping him warm.

Mickey felt his phone vibrate. Only a few people even had this number- Gallagher, Mandy, Iggy, and AJ, so it might have been important. He had finally maneuvered Gallagher so they were both sitting on the couch, Ian practically sitting in his lap, cuddling. It seemed safe, so Mickey glanced at his phone. 

It was a text from AJ. He had to have sent it sitting in his car outside Mickey’s house moments ago, judging by the time stamp. 

**AJ B (7:12 PM):** NO DRUGS NO KISSING NO SEX

Mickey grimaced, he hadn’t actually had any intentions towards getting fucked up or into Gallagher’s pants, but now he had the image of AJ sitting in his car, thinking of all the ways Mickey could screw up. 

Part of him longed to live down to the negative expectation, to fulfill the worst case scenario. But one glance at Ian and he knew there was no way the kid could even try tempting him into anything tonight. Guy couldn’t fend off a kitten right now. Ian had wrapped an arm behind Mickey’s back, and was holding him in a sort of sideways hug that had him splayed over Mickey’s chest as they sat there.  Mickey's legs were partially propped up on Ian's legs and Ian's legs were propped up on the couch, to his left side.

Mickey took the moment to shoot off a quick reply to AJ.

**Mickey M (7:18 PM):** We’ll keep it G-rated, just for you.

AJ replied, as if he’d been waiting by the phone.

**AJ B (7:19 PM):** Knew you would. Good job, Mickey. 

And fuck if  _ that  _ didn’t feel good. Like a thrill in his goddamn heart, reading that AJ approved of his actions. Mickey tossed his phone on the low table in the center of the room and turned all of his attention to Gallagher. To Ian. 

_ Now what? They couldn’t just sit here all night, could they? _

He offered the first thing that came into his head, his eye caught on the pile of DVDs beside the TV. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Ian shook his head, slowly, “Can we just- stay like this? Maybe- talk?”

_ Ok, it looked like they **were** gonna sit here all night. _

“Whatever you want,” Mickey stroked the side of Gallagher’s head, and sighed. “What should we talk about?”

Ian shifted, burying his face further: he was basically in Mickey’s armpit at that point, his ear pressed to Mickey’s heart, “I wanna talk about us.”

_ Us? _

“Big topic there. Not sure what you mean.” Mickey knew  _ exactly  _ what Ian meant, them, their future. He was asking the big questions, and Mickey didn’t think he had answers.

“Like someday, I want to- fuck, Mick, I want to be with you. And no one else. No fake marriages, no Russian hookers, just us.” 

Mickey was pretty sure his heart had stopped. He couldn’t feel anything, his hands were cold, and the only thing he was aware of was a rushing in his ears.

_ Time to put up or shut up, Milkovich. _

“Uh- yeah. I- I want that too.”

Ian sat up abruptly, jarring Mickey back into the sensations of his body. Ian stared into his eyes, holding his face just inches away. Mickey wasn’t used to being on eye level with Ian, and it felt like a different level of exposure or intimacy.

“You do? Like, for real?” 

_ Why did Gallagher sound so unsure? _

Mickey couldn’t maintain the eye contact, it was too intense. He ducked his head to the side, the hand not wrapped around Gallagher’s waist coming up to his mouth in the old familiar gesture, the one that had been him biting at his nails until his father had beaten it out of him. He breathed out. If Ian was thinking about the future, and recalling the past, Mickey’s fears that he was high were assuaged- he was far too coherent.

_ Honesty. Open Mindedness. Willingness. _

“I’m - yeah, I’m fucking sure.” 

Ian was tilting his head, jutting his chin out, like maybe he wanted to kiss Mickey, and Mickey leaned away. “But you know, we can’t.”

Ian’s eyes immediately filled with tears, “What? Why, Mick? Why not?”

Mickey reached his hand up, soothingly laying it on Ian’s cheek. “Shhh, it’s ok, I just mean not right now.” He used his thumb to wipe away an errant tear that was rolling over the freckled skin. 

“Sponsors and that shit. In a few months though- you better be ready.” He gave Ian a grin, the grin that used to precede really good fucking, back in the day. The  [ teasing grin ](https://i.imgur.com/dsg4juq.gif) that challenged Gallagher, that said ‘make me,’ or maybe, ‘I’ll make you.’

“Oh, that.” Ian laid his head back on Mickey’s chest, seemingly mollified.

“Yeah, that.” Mickey agreed.

Ian cleared the choked tears from his throat before adding, “It means a lot to me too. Being clean. Sponsorship is so weird, but I kind of love it.” 

Mickey did too, though he wouldn’t say it out loud. 

What he said instead was “AJ said I was doin a good job with you. Felt-” he struggled to find the right words instead of relying on ‘good’ again. “Felt like I was someone else. Or like I could be.”

Ian let out a giant yawn, then asked, “Do you like that person you’re turning into?”

“I don’t know him.” The answer was right there, honest and direct. Mickey didn’t feel like he knew this novel version of himself at all. 

“I know him.” Ian’s voice was sleepy now, soft. “Good guy. Great ass.”

“I know you love my ass, Gallagher.” Mickey’s smile was fond as he turned his body and snuggled closer to Ian. Mickey’s back was against the couch’s arm, and Ian was plastered to the front of his chest, between his legs. In other situations, if the guy didn’t have drying tears on his face, it’d be insanely hot. As it was, Mickey just hoped his hard-on wasn’t poking Gallagher anywhere uncomfortable. 

* * *

When Mandy came home at 11pm, she found them asleep there, snoring lightly. She smiled, and grabbed Mickey’s comforter off his bed and threw it over them before heading to her room. So cute, so gay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The usual progression in recovery is get a plant, keep it alive for 3 or so months, get a pet, keep it alive for 6-9 months, and then maybe consider whether you have the time and energy for a relationship. So AJ's push here isn't just about the hobby.  
> 2\. Tina is a real dog who needs a home in Chicago, FYI.  
> 3\. Zara is based on a real person as well.  
> 4\. Prison phone calls ain't cheap kids. If someone pays that, they really do love you.  
> 5\. https://storiescdn.hornet.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/21100433/snuggles.jpg is my reference for the couch scene.  
> 6\. Honesty, openmindedness, and willingness are some basic spiritual principles of the program of Narcotics Anonymous, also known as the HOW of the program.  
> 7\. Although I am personally a proponent of person-first language, Mickey doesn't have years of recovery, so he and Ian are still going to be employing stigmatizing language like addict. It's a specific writing choice, rather than a lack of knowledge on my part.


	16. How it Works: Step 3 Part 5 (Ian) December 9th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian wakes up, in a house he never expected to set foot in again.
> 
> Find me on twitter @thesermymonkeys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We've worked Steps One and Two with our sponsor-we've surrendered, and we've demonstrated our willingness to try something new. This has charged us with a strong sense of hope. But if we do not translate our hope into action right now, it will fade away, and we'll end up right back where we started. The action we need to take is working Step Three."
> 
> (All readings, steps, and literature are owned by Narcotics Anonymous. Please don't sue me.)
> 
> If you or someone you know needs help with a substance use disorder, visit NA.org for help and local meetings, include Zoom and Discord meetings during the pandemic.

Ian woke up feeling warm, too warm. He was laying on something- on someone.

_ Oh shit. Please, no. Not again,  _ _ he panicked, thoughts flashing back to the drug-fueled promiscuity that pretty much defined his addiction. _

Warily, he opened his eyes. He was in a house that seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was cleaner than his usual drug den, but he still couldn’t quite bring the previous night into focus in his memory.

The pillow he was resting his head on shuddered out a half breath, and he realized with growing horror that he was resting his face on a person, and leapt up, half knocking over a coffee table in his rush. He glanced around wildly, looking for an exit, his phone, anything. His eyes flew back to the couch, and his adrenaline overdose began to slow- that was  _ Mickey _ . If he was in a drug den, then Mickey was with him. Which was terrible news, and not a thing that should give him courage, but it still did, like having Mickey close at hand would keep him safe.

Mickey was stirring now, starting to wake up since Ian’s rapid departure from his midsection. The couch he was laying on actually seemed-  _ oh _ .

Ian knew this couch. 

He  _ hated  _ this couch. He seriously hated this whole house.

He didn’t feel high, or sick, or like he was coming off of anything, so he was fairly sure he hadn’t used, or if he had, he was still under the influence of something strong enough to make him feel like he hadn’t- he shut down that panic mind trap.

As relieved as he was to realize he (probably) hadn’t relapsed, he was still horrified to find himself in the Milkovich domicile. Now Mickey was more awake, and was watching him with a guilty look on his face.

“What? What’d we do?” Ian needed to know the worst, immediately.

Mickey’s face changed to confusion, “Do? We didn’t do shit. ‘Cept you did drool a little.” He indicated a damp patch in the center of his grey tee shirt. 

“Mickey, seriously. Where’s your dad? What happened last night? Did we…”

“Gallagher, seriously, nothing happened last night. Dad’s in jail, been in jail for years, will be for another decade or two. We were fuckin chaste as nuns. We talked, you fell asleep, so did I. End of story.” Mickey stood and moved into the adjoining kitchen, Ian couldn’t see his face anymore, which just intensified his suspicions.

“Then why do you look like you got away with something?” Ian’s voice was rising in pitch and volume, and he could hear movement in one of the back bedrooms, though no one appeared.

“Fuckin relax! My stupid face was stupid, that’s nothing new. I was glad you were here, s’all.”

“How did I get here though, Mick?”

Mickey stuck his head out of the kitchen, concern writ large across his features, lips pursed. “You really don’t remember? The meetin’? The ride home? The - um, after?”

A fuzzy image swam up into Ian’s mind, of his body wrapped around Mickey's like a lamprey.

_ That couldn’t be right. _

“Refresh my memory.” He leaned on the kitchen counter, surprised by the scent of cleaning products wafting off of it.

Mickey eyed him, but didn’t start talking. He was pulling ingredients out of the fridge: a carton of eggs, a plastic fruit bag with some peppers, judging by the bright colors, and a loaf of crusty bread.

Ian continued his pleas, “Mickey- seriously. I wanna know.”

“Why don’t you remember, then?” At home in his own kitchen, Mickey started slicing the peppers up deftly. 

_ When had Mickey learned to do that? _

“It’s just the meds, sometimes when I get too upset, stuff gets… fuzzy. What’re you makin?”

“Makin’ breakfast, firecrotch. Thought you might be hungry after your long night of doing nothing and drooling.”

Ian wasn’t really upset, but he played along. “Fuck you, Mick.”

“Not quite yet, remember?”  [ Mickey raised the eyebrows again at him, grinning ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CXvCvq1WwAAcal-.jpg) . Was Mickey Milkovich  _ flirting  _ with him?

That did bring back a snippet of conversation. 

_ Oh…. shit. _

Did he  _ cry _ ? 

Ian protectively crossed his arms over his chest (not as broad as it had been, but more than the skinny thing he’d been in May.) “Nope. I don’t know what you’re talkin about.”

Mickey had cut four thick slices of the loaf and popped them into a toaster that looked like it was on its last legs. Still not speaking, he cracked six eggs into a small bowl and grabbed a bent fork out of a drawer and used it to whisk the eggs together, adding some milk, salt, pepper, and some other spices from a cabinet. Ian would have bet money, like actual cash, that the Milkovich’s didn’t even own a bowl, let alone spices. 

“Fine, I’ll bite. Listen carefully.” Mickey stopped his whisking, and met Ian’s eyes. “Nothin’ happened. You were sad, AJ drove us here, we talked, you fell asleep.”

“What does that have to do with fucking, then?”

“It came up.” He had reached into the fridge to add a splash of milk to the whisked eggs.

“ _ How _ , Mick? 

Mickey shook his head, and turned to pull out a battered frying pan, putting a splat of butter in the middle and turning on the burner underneath.

Frustrated, Ian rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, willing himself to remember the details. 

Sex didn’t embarass Mickey, not really. Not when it was just the two of them. But what did embarrass Mickey was  _ feelings _ . He must have been talking about his feelings for the man, and freaked him out. But if Mickey was freaked, why was he still cooking breakfast for them both?

“What did I say to you, Mick?”

That was it; he’d hit on the right answer; he knew because Mickey’s ears were tipped in pink. He was worrying his full bottom lip with his teeth as he carefully poured the egg mixture into the hot pan, then added the chopped vegetables and still he kept silent.

“Was it- did I say too much? Like, about my past?”

_ Had he talked about Caleb, or Trevor, or, god forbid, Austin? _

“What? Fuck no, Gallagher.” Mickey shook his head impatiently, using a spatula with a melted handle to carefully tend the omlet. “You didn’t say shit about the past, well, about  _ your  _ past. You - uh, you said a little about us.” Deftly, he flipped the omlet over to let the other side brown, as the toaster popped.

“Us?”

“Yeah, us. Like, what you might want someday.” Mickey’s back was to him, and the words were rushed, like he was uncertain, unsure of where they stood.

_ Because Ian didn’t fucking remember whatever he had said to Mickey about their future, together. He’d forgotten some momentous shit in his using days, but this took the cake. _

The panic started to rise, Ian’s pulse hammering. His hearing started to doppler slightly, the sound of Mickey scraping a dull knife with butter over the toasted bread echoing in and out. The urge to run away, never looking back, finding a nice hole or drug to crawl into until he'd blown up his life, was nearly overpowering. He looked around, counting and assessing the exits. 

_ Window, backdoor, front door, bedroom. _

The tension had built and built, until Ian felt like the pressure of the conversation, of his feelings for Mickey and the fear of disappointing him- it was too much. The fact that Mickey was making him breakfast couldn’t outweigh the fears running rampant in his mind, and he had to bolt.

Ian made it about three strides back into the living room, when a smaller but muscled form launched itself and tackled him to the floor. Ignoring the bruising discomfort, he bucked his hips, twisting, trying to get free, but the other man clambered onto his midsection, sitting there and holding his hands down, their faces uncomfortably close and their groins nearly perfectly aligned. Except of course, Ian was soft.

Mickey noticed, of course he did, he had to, sitting where he was, but he didn’t look away from Ian’s face, even when the shame-filled green eyes slid down to his shoulder. Ian could feel the throb of Mickey’s cock, the heat and weight. It hurt, to know that Mickey wanted him but he couldn’t reciprocate. Ian tried to take advantage of Mickey’s slight distraction, leaning up to nuzzle behind his ear until Mickey’s eyes slid shut, then wrenching mightily until he was halfway up, turning until he was on his knees, facing away. 

Mickey tackled him again, bringing him easily down to the well-word carpeting, face first. Mickey’s body was plastered to the back of his, a reversal of their usual sexual dynamic, making Ian feel even further inadequate, overpowered yet again.

“Nope, bitch, you gotta talk this out.” Mickey was hissing in his ear, all his energy still working to hold the taller man down. “What the fuck’s gotten into you?”

Ian gave up, just dropped all pretenses and laid flat on the floor, eyes squeezed shut.

“My dick doesn’t work, Mick.” Ian’s voice was small now, compressed by his position and by shame.

“Huh?” 

_ Ah, fuck. He was gonna have to explain the whole mess. _

“Since the meth. It’s like- sometimes it works, but sometimes I don’t.”

Silence met him, and then the weight on his back lifted. 

After a moment, he stood slowly, brushing himself off, and saw Mickey moving back to the kitchen, trying to salvage breakfast.

_ This was how it ended, he guessed. How they ended. _

“It’s ok if you leave, or I guess, if I leave. I’ll see you at the meeting, or I can find another-”

“-Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.” Mickey was shaking his head, his back to Ian, but his hands still visible as he laid the omelets over now-cold toast. “The hell makes you think I give a crap about the state of your dick, anyway?” He turned, his eyes searching Ian’s face, letting him see beyond the implied insult in the words.

“You love my dick! It’s like, the only thing we agree on.” This Ian knew. His relationship with Mickey was predicated on Ian’s dick in Mickey’s ass. Everything else was ephemeral, but that was the constant, the sempiternal. A plate landed in front of him, and he automatically sat down at the kitchen table before he’d realized what he’d done. That’s just what he did now, when there was food. He’d gone so many months without, with too little, or too cold, that food made just for him was still meaningful.

Mickey yanked out the chair opposite him and sat heavily with his own plate, not meeting his eyes as he ate steadily. But his ears and now his whole face was more than the usual pale, it was pink. He was  _ blushing _ as he asked, “S’ not forever though, right?”

“Huh?” It was Ian’s turn to lose the thread of the conversation.

“Your,” Mickey waved the end of his fork at the middle of the table, “dick situation. Not permanent?”

“Oh. Yeah, probably not permanent. It is possible though.”

Mickey chewed thoughtfully, swallowing, then taking a sip of coffee from a mug he’d produced while Ian had been preoccupied.

“You still got fingers though? A tongue? I’m set then. Maybe I teach you how good it feels to have something in your ass.”

The foundation of Ian’s world, and the very bedrock of his relationship with Mickey, or at least his understanding of it, was shifting. Mickey was still in, even if his dick didn’t work. The fear that had consumed him pretty much constantly since he’d met the man again, since they’d hugged, since the Halloween kiss, since the hand holding, and just everything- it had evaporated like summer mist. His internal compass was burned away, leaving a blank space, full of possibilities.

_ Fuck, Ian. Find some words. And use them. _

But he couldn’t. He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish.

Mickey pointed the fork at his face this time,  “Eat your omelet. We got a few months still before this becomes more than theoretical anyway.”

Ian ate another bite of omelet, as directed. His brain was still caught in a feedback loop of  _ my dick doesn’t work- Mickey will leave- Mickey knows - Mickey didn’t leave. _

Sensing his ongoing internal conflict, Mickey filled the conversational gap, “You could have lied, given me some bullshit excuse. You didn’t. That’s like- growth and shit.”

That roused Ian. He still felt like the skinny kid with huge eyes who had run into the back room at work when a bully came looking for him.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t feel like I’ve grown at all, I’m still just Southside trash.” He stared at his plate, at the half-eaten omelet, still shaken.

“Please, you grew like four feet taller since we met, and you’ve gained at least 30 pounds of muscle since you got clean.”

That got him to grin a little, “Not what I meant.”

Mickey sighed deeply, “No, I know. It’s easier for me to talk about real stuff, instead of feelings.”

“You know feelings are real, right?”

“Fuck you, yes, I know feelings are real, asshole. But AJ, um, he has a thing. Says feelings aren’t facts. They pass. They change. So how you felt last night might not be how you feel today, or in a few months.”

_ Just tell him. He’s still here. He  _ **_knows_ ** _ , and he’s still here. _

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be in love with you until I die. You’re it for me. The only one I’ve ever loved.”

Rather than pleased, or even intrigued, Mickey looked stricken. “That’s- that’s a lot to respond to. Can I eat?”

“Sure, Mick. Eat your eggs.” Ian’s voice had warmth now, he’d told Mickey everything and the man hadn’t run.  He’d told Mickey everything and  _ he  _ hadn’t run.

“Cause I put a lot of work into this breakfast!”

“I know! It’s good, tasty. Impressive. You’ll make someone a nice ghetto wife someday.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Promiscuity does NOT define all using experiences, but for Ian's particular circumstances, the feelings he expressed here are typical.  
> 2\. Unfortunately, you don't always know if you're high when you wake up, but you likely know if you're hungover/coming down.  
> 3\. Many people in recovery pick up new hobbies- often working out, right around Step 3.  
> 4\. Everyone has a little PTSD in this fic, apparently.  
> 5\. I learned a new word: sempiternal  
> 6\. To be clear, this is NOT a BottomIan fic. However, it's important here for him to know that Mickey is into him, dick or no dick.  
> 7\. "Fuck, Ian. Find some words. And use them." is stolen from another fic I thought I had marked, but now can't find. If you know, tell me and I will credit the author.  
> 8\. Feelings are NOT facts. They feel real, but then they can change. It's key not to make big decisions in recovery based on just a feeling.  
> 


	17. IP #23: Staying Clean on the Outside (Mickey)  December 9th-12th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey walks Ian home, fills out the application, and has some private time. 
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack: Real Long Time - White Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't want to see adult content, just skip everything after "gave him an idea."  
> Certain details, although non canonical, are now cannon in my head, courtesy of "Like Real People Do."
> 
> You will have notice that I have abandoned the Steps as Chapter Titles. Meh. 🤷  
> The guys will still be doing steps, and you'll see them work through stuff, but I was tying myself in knots instead of focusing on plot and moving it along.   
> I know the timeline is bad- please suspend your disbelief for a moment, and be kind to me.  
> If I missed explaining any recovery content, please leave a comment!! 🖤  
> \--------  
> IP #23 Staying Clean on the Outside (condensed here by this author)  
> This is NA Fellowship-approved literature.  
> Copyright © 1987, 1988 by  
> Narcotics Anonymous World Services, Inc.
> 
> For many of us, early recovery was difficult. Facing the prospect of life without drugs can be very frightening. But those of us who made it through the early days found a life worth living.
> 
> Using these phone numbers will feel strange at first, even silly. But, given that isolation is at the core of the disease of addiction, that first phone call is a big stride forward. 
> 
> Staying clean on the outside means taking action.  
> What we do for our recovery today does not ensure our recovery tomorrow. It is a mistake to assume that the good intention of getting around to NA after a while will be sufficient. We must back up our intentions with action, the earlier the better.
> 
> If we are to receive the benefits of the NA Program, we must work the Twelve Steps. Along with regular meeting attendance, the steps are basic to our program of recovery from addiction.
> 
> We have found that working the steps in order and continuously reworking them keeps us from relapsing into active addiction and the misery that it brings.
> 
> It is never too early to establish a personal program of daily action. Taking daily action is our  
> way of taking responsibility for our recovery. 
> 
> For an addict, there is no substitute for the fellowship of others actively engaged in recovery. It is important to give ourselves a break and give our recovery a chance. We may find some situations which are no different than before but, through the program of Narcotics Anonymous, we can change the way we respond to them. Changing ourselves does change our lives.

Mickey walked Ian the few blocks to the Gallagher house. He seemed ok, at least not the withdrawn shell he’d been yesterday, but anything could happen. Ian used his key to let them into the house, which was just starting to wake up, the smells of coffee, burning, and laundry soap heavy on the cold air. Mickey could tell he was still a little off-center, the distress and outright panic he’d witnessed Ian display around breakfast were like nothing he’d ever seen in the other man in their previous time together. He was worse than the Halloween dance, and it worried Mickey. 

Having those feelings come on the heels of one of their most vulnerable and intimate times together _again_ didn’t bode well, Mickey knew. It was like every time they made progress, defining what they were to each other, what they wanted, Ian’s mental health degraded, at least temporarily. 

_What kind of shitty person would he be if he put his happiness before Gallagher’s well being?_

He had an idea that maybe if he pulled back from this, from Gallagher, gave him some space, Ian could figure out his own shit. It would hurt, hurt like a bitch, to have _I want to be with you. And no one else_ dangled in front of him, and then snatched away, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had to give up something he secretly longed for, not even the first time with Gallagher. 

At the house, the Gallagher clan was mostly out for the day, only Fiona sat at the kitchen table. She half stood when she got a look at Ian’s face, but when she saw Mickey, she sat back down without saying a word, letting him usher Ian up the stairs. Ian led them to a bedroom crowded with single beds, bunk beds, and an old, battered crib. Ian curled up on one of the single beds, pulling a ratty green comforter over his shoulders against the cool air in the house.

“Hey, Mick?” Mickey had turned to go, unsure of what he was supposed to do, but Ian’s quiet voice drew him to stand awkwardly by the side of the low bed.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For breakfast, and- you know, for not letting me run.”

_No mention of last night._

It looked like they were going to pretend that hadn’t happened.

“It was nothing, no problem,” Mickey offered, the words burning in his mouth. He sat lightly, on the very edge of the bed, and ran his fingers delicately through the red hair peeking out of the blanket. “Get some rest. I’ll see you- around.” The stutter-step of his speech was obvious, but he planned to ignore it, the unsaid words and insecurities it implied.

He was turning, ready to depart, when strong fingers gripped his wrist, pulling him back. Bright green eyes peered at him, searching his face, while Ian’s fingers kept their hold on his wrist.

“Not _around_. I’ll see you tonight at the meeting,” he said urgently.

“Ok, man. Sure, tonight.” Mickey would have agreed to anything he said right now, but the insistence that tonight would be a normal night, with their usual hug, did make him feel a low heat at the base of his spine. 

“Really, Mick. Tonight.” And then Ian did the strangest thing. 

Stretching his head up fully out from his blanket-nest, he pulled the hand he still gripped to his face, lightly kissing the tattooed knuckles. His lips landed between the ‘U’ and ‘P.’ “Promise,” he murmured, releasing Mickey’s hand.

Mickey blushed, and nodded, unable to maintain eye contact. 

The blankets were pulled up over Ian’s ears again, and Mickey headed down the stairs into the mostly empty Gallagher kitchen where Fiona was finishing a bowl of cereal and looking at her phone. When she heard him descending the stairs, she laid the phone down, and turned her chair to face him. He noticed she didn’t invite him to sit down. 

_Good enough to sit here for Thanksgiving, but not without Ian, huh?_

“You wanna tell me why my brother spent the night out last night, and came home looking like- like that?” Her tone was accusatory, and Mickey bridled at the implications.

“Hey, fuck you. He was already messed up when I got to the meetin, so I took him home, let him sleep, made him breakfast that didn’t come out of a cereal box,” he eyed the offending breakfast item dismissively, “and got him home in one piece. Didn’t see you blowing up his phone to check on him.”

Fiona blew out a breath, and swiped her bangs off of her face. “Thought he was usin. High again. He never answered when he was high.”

“He’s not fucking high. It’s somethin else.”

Fiona eyed him warily, before saying, “You gotta be careful with him, Mickey. He’s- he’s been through a lot, and our mom- she had some issues, and Ian dealt with too much, too young. I just don’t know if a Milkovich, no offence, is gonna be what he needs right now.”

Mickey rolled his eyes dramatically, “Is this your shovel speech? Because it sucks. Full offence.”

Fiona’s temper had flared from its previously banked embers, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! He’s got a mental illness!”

“No shit. He talks about it at meetings and the good thing about not being able to fuck is that you actually talk about what's going on-”

“Wait, you _aren’t_ fucking? Why not? What’s wrong with you, Milkovich?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s none of your fucking business.” Mickey wasn’t about to air Ian’s personal shit to his sister, even if it meant that she thought _he_ was the problem. 

“Yeah, ok, I guess that’s a bit much,” Fiona relented. “It’s good he’s talking about it though. Those meetings help?”

“I guess.” He bit his lip, and thought for a second. “It’s more the people at the meetings, than the thing itself, for me. Not sure about him.”

“He’s got a woman sponsoring him- you know anything about that?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, tired of her fishing for information from him. “Yep. And that’s all I’m gonna say. You gotta ask him yourself.”

Fiona nodded. “It’s hard, you know? I don’t wanna upset him, or drive him away when he’s doing so good.”

Mickey knew _exactly_ what that felt like.

“Dunno. Maybe not talking to him will drive him away just as fast?”

Fiona stared at him for a moment. “You sure you’re a Milkovich? Cause that sounded pretty fucking smart, right there.”

“Hey, fuck you.” He shot her the finger and turned, hurrying out before she could make it weird. _Weirder_.

* * *

When he got home, Iggy was playing video games in the living room, and Mandy was out. It was too early to make lunch, Iggy had a monopoly on the TV and was playing Minecraft which, a. was for preteen boys, and B. Mickey hated the game with a passion. It was just playing legos on TV, with shitty graphics, for fuck’s sake!

Mickey pulled out the battered laptop and sat on his bed, back to the wall. He opened up a browser, and waited for the shelter’s website to load, then navigated to the foster application. He filled out the first few questions easily enough: name, address, previous pets (none). 

Then the questions got complicated. 

**Does anyone in the household have allergies to dogs?**

_Fuck if he knew._

**Describe your yard: No yard - Unfenced yard - Partially fenced yard - Completely fenced.**

_No option for dirt-pit full of old beer bottles surrounded by a rotting wooden privacy fence._

**How many hours during the AVERAGE day will this dog spend WITHOUT a human?**

_Would it be weird if he wrote zero?_ Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He knew most people did leave their dogs home alone, and he was supposed to be preparing the dog for a real home.

When he got to the list of problem behaviors he might encounter (Excessive barking, Destructive chewing, Not house trained, Digging, Escaping, Resource (food/toy) aggression, Shy, fearful, or undersocialized dog, Not good with children, Not good with other dogs, Not good with small animals/cats, Scratching/biting, Requires daily medications, Requires on-going training), he closed the laptop with a shaking hand and picked up his cell phone.

Looking at the call history, he saw he’d only talked on the phone with one person in the past 30 days- AJ. He hit the call button, and waited as it rang. Finally, it sent him to voicemail, and he frowned with frustration. What use was a sponsor if he couldn’t answer his stupid phone? 

Mickey knew he was being unreasonable even as the thought crossed his mind, but his emotions felt especially raw, and every setback felt like an additional millstone around his neck. Then Mickey’s _ping_ of a text notification went off.

**AJ B (11:12 AM):** I’m busy but can text, what’s up?

 **Mickey M (11:13 AM):** It’s the dog thing. Application. There’s a list of issues she could have. 

**AJ B (11:14 AM):** Could have, or does have?

 **Mickey M (11:15 AM):** Could.

 **AJ B (11:17 AM):** Let’s burn that bridge when we get to it. What’s really wrong?

_Fucking sponsors and their sixth sense for when shit was wrong._

**Mickey M (11:18 AM):** Gallagher’s being weird. I think he’s broken and I need to give him space.

 **AJ B (11:18 AM):** Does “space” mean you’re gonna ice him out and pretend he’s nobody to you?

 **Mickey M (11:20 AM):** … yeah

 **AJ B (11:20 AM):** And you think THAT'S WHAT HE NEEDS?

The caps really conveyed AJ’s frustration, making Mickey’s mouth twitch into the approximation of a smile, even as he tried to formulate a response that explained his train of thought. How he was protecting Ian BY leaving him alone.

 **Mickey M (11:21 AM):** I just think he needs to focus on himself right now.

 **AJ B (11:23 AM):** And you’re not wrong there. But how do you think he’s going to respond when you skip the hugging?

Mickey hadn’t considered that his plan involved no hugs. The idea of cutting himself off from the thing giving him the most pleasure in life was selfishly unpleasant. But…

 **Mickey M (11:24 AM):** He’ll be fine. I can just explain it to him.

 **AJ B (11:25 AM):** Sure, sure. ‘Sorry Ian, I can’t hug you anymore, it’s for your own good because I’m your father and I get to decide what’s best for you.’

_That hurt._

Mickey tried to figure out what AJ meant, beyond the father shit.

 **Mickey M (11:26 AM):** You’re saying I don’t get to make the choice for him?

 **AJ B (11:27 AM):** He’s in the care of, same as you. He can choose, and deal with consequences. But if you choose for him, that’s like, 5 different character defects. Lying, manipulation, people pleasing, selfishness, and the big one, FEAR. 

**Mickey M (11:27 AM):** I’m no bitch!

 **AJ B (11:28 AM):** I know that. 😬 Neither is he. 

**AJ B (11:28 AM):** You know what the spiritual opposite of fear is?

Mickey quickly opened a new tab on the browser and googled “What is the opposite of fear?”

 **Mickey M (11:29 AM):** Calm?

 **AJ B (11:30 AM):** Stop googling shit and expecting valid results. The opposite of fear is faith; trust that both of your needs will be met, that you can both get through problems, and let things happen without the need to put your dick in the problem. 

Mickey was really tempted to make a joke about being a bottom, but decided now wasn’t the time. _Growth_.

**Mickey M (11:31 AM):** ok.

 **AJ** **B (11:31 AM):** That’s it? Ok?

 **Mickey M (11:32 AM):** Still worried about the dog. That wasn’t bullshit.

 **AJ B (11:33 AM):** You can cook. You kept yourself alive this long, which I know was impressive given your family dynamics, and you kept Gallagher’s goodwill without him seeing you for about a decade, so you have the capacity to give and receive love. You’ll be fine.

 **Mickey M (11:35 AM):** He said he wants to be with me, like exclusively. 😐

_I’m pretty sure I’ll be in love with you until I die. You’re it for me._

**AJ B (11:36 AM):** Isn’t that good news? Why the frowny face?

 **Mickey M (11:36 AM):** When he woke up this morning, he’d forgotten. Side effect of his meds.

 **AJ B (11:37 AM):** That had to hurt.

_It had. It did._

**AJ B (11:37 AM):** Think he’ll remember later?

 **Mickey M (11:38 AM):** Dunno. Not going to remind him, either, before you suggest it.

 **AJ B (11:38 AM):** Wasn’t going to. But if he doesn’t- then what?

 **Mickey M (11:40 AM):** What should I do?

AJ’s response took so long Mickey thought he’d been distracted, and he opened the laptop and filled in a few more boxes of the application online, before the _ping_ of his phone brought his attention back.

**AJ B (11:45 AM):** Let’s give it some time, see what happens. Live in the present, not the future.

 **Mickey M (11:46 AM):** Did you seriously tell me the answer to my problem is Just For Today?

 **AJ B (11:47 AM):** **😂😂😂😂😂**

* * *

With AJ’s support, he finished the application and submitted it, then had nothing else on his plate for a few hours. 

He looked around his room, eye running over the old electric guitar. Pulling off his sweater and tank top, he briefly considered picking the instrument up, jamming out like he used to, but discarded the idea. He’d never been any good, and he wasn’t in the mood to wallow in things he wasn’t good at right now. 

The next item his eye fell on was his pile of NA books. He was still in the morass of the third step, close to done but still struggling with a concept of a higher power that worked for him. 

He kept substituting Gallagher in, asking what Gallagher would do and it was working out just fine. But he also knew that wouldn’t fly with AJ. Also it seemed moderately unhealthy to consider your ~~future partner~~ friend to be the mouthpiece for the word of god. Guy had a big enough ego as it was. But it was much easier to answer all the God questions if he just substituted Ian’s name and thought about what Ian wanted for him. Or might want. 

He flipped open his notepad and read the question at the top of the page. _What is the difference between my will and God's will? How do I take action to turn it over? Are there any words I say regularly? What are they?_ He flipped the notebook closed again. Not gonna touch that right now. But touching gave him an idea...

* * *

Mickey locked his bedroom door. It was an aftermarket deadbolt: he’d screwed it into the door so he could finally get some privacy a few years back, and only used it occasionally. This felt like a safe time, if not an actual emergency.

Looking at the laptop, he considered pulling up a porn site, but with how worked up he already was, he knew he didn’t need that. He wanted to enjoy this a little, not go off like a firecracker in .03 seconds. He still opened the machine, and put on some rock, to cover the sound of the embarrassing noises he anticipated. Undoing the button on his jeans, he let them fall to the floor. Reaching down, he felt his soft cock through the thin material of his boxers, trying to pull up a scenario in his mind to focus on. Still standing, he pulled down the waistband of the boxers, kicking them to the floor. Stopping for a moment, he reached back and piled his few thin pillows up on the bed, and sat, legs stretched out on the bed in a vee. 

The feeling of disorientation was strong: he was nude, it was daylight, and he was about to get off to a fantasy of Gallagher. He began by running his hands up his abdomen, patting his own small belly, the way he remembered Ian used to; the guy had actually liked to grab it, mouth at it, even though it embarrassed Mickey. Trailing his fingers up, he brushed the tips over his nipples, circling them lightly until they stood. As he thumbed over the pink peaks, his cock slowly flexed, stretching up and plumping out. His breaths became shorter, sharper and audible to his own ears despite the music.

He brought one hand to his mouth touching his tongue to his index finger and thumb, then using those to slide over his right nipple, then the left. He imagined it was Gallagher’s mouth, and he pinched with his finger nails for a moment, pretending it was those sharp, white teeth nipping at him.

His free hand slid down his body, trailing through the dark hair at the base of his cock, fluffing it, teasing himself. Next he grabbed and squeezed the top of one thigh, drawing his nails up the skin, not holding back, letting the pain sharpen his focus as his cock became fat, and a first drop of precum beaded at the tip. Instead of grabbing his cock, he pulled both hands away, bringing them to his neck, running light fingertips across his collarbones, up, behind his ears. It felt soft as fuck to touch himself that way, but he was imagining Gallagher’s giant hands petting him, imagined green eyes getting off on watching his cock tighten, bending slightly left the way it did when he was fully hard. 

Tired of teasing himself, he slid one leg towards his body, foot flat on the bed, giving himself access to his hole. He wrapped his right hand loosely around the shaft of his dick and gave it a few pulls, just feeling the way his skin slid over the fullness. He brought his other hand down, cupping his balls, tugging gently. The first rivulet of precum was sliding down his cock, and he used it to slick his hand, swiping his palm over his cock head just once, then going back to the loose grip. He thrust up into his fist a few times, letting his grip tighten as more precum appeared from his slit. Taking a deep breath, he focused on just stroking the base of his cock, closing his eyes to imagine Ian’s voice telling him what to do next.

_Gather up some of that, and touch your hole._

He did what Ian suggested, just rubbing the pad of his finger in circles around, slicking the area up, feeling the nerves wake up, light up. He flexed, internally, his cock bobbing in front of him and his ass tightening under his finger. A large drip of precum drooled from his cock onto the comforter. He’d have to wash it later, but right now, Ian was amazed.

_Look at that, you’re barely touching yourself and you’re already so turned on._

_I wish you were here_ , he thought to his Mental Ian, biting his lip.

_I wish I was there, too. Now put something up your ass for me._

Mickey grinned, even in his mind, Ian was bossy, needy, always wanting more. He ran his middle finger through more of his precum then slid it into his hole, just to the first knuckle, curling his finger and curving his wrist to feel around the inside of his entrance. 

_Don’t stop stroking._

Mickey’s attention had been distracted from his dick, but he dutifully resumed stripping it, letting his fingers tighten just below the head, where he was more sensitive. He let his index finger dip deeper, trying to coordinate between thrusting up into his grip and the desire to slide more of his fingers deeper into his ass. Shit was complicated.

_Faster, Mick. And more fingers._

He obliged, first sucking on his fingers to wet them, then slipping two inside, twisting, making himself moan. The hand he was fucking into, that he pretended was Gallagher’s stupid mitt, was covered in precum, slippery and slick and now every time he fucked up there was a little squelching noise. He added a third finger, reaching to try and get the depth he craved. Fucking short fingers.

_Do you just like me because I have long fingers?_

_The big dick doesn’t hurt_ , he answered Imaginary Ian in his head. That got a laugh, he thought. If he couldn’t quite reach his prostate from this angle, at least he could open his fingers slightly, giving that burn and stretch he craved as he fucked up into his fist, faster, the rocking of his hips making the old bed creak rhythmically. He was close, but he still needed something.

Closing his eyes, he pictured Ian kneeling above his torso, offering his own long, thick cock, the veins prominent and just out of reach. He opened his mouth, panting, resting his tongue on the bottom of his mouth like a pillow, if Gallagher would just let him taste it, he could cum, he needed something in his mouth, like, _now_. Phantom Ian stroked his cock in his imagination, he could smell his musk, and see his eyes smiling down. Frustrated, he pulled his fingers out of his ass, and brought his forearm to his mouth, sucking on the flesh as his other hand kept a rapid pace, tugging his cock urgently. 

_Ugh, you’re so hot._ Fantasy Ian’s gaze couldn’t pick where to focus on, going on a loop from Mickey’s cock, to his mouth latched on his own skin, to his eyes. 

_I’m really not the hot one in this equation,_ _firecrotch_.

_You are to me._

This was his fantasy now, Gallagher offering him affirmations? He groaned around the skin in his mouth, trying to find the one image to push him over. _What would you do, if you were here_ , he asked Gallagher. 

_Oh, Mick. I’d smack your hand away from your cock, flip you over and slide my fat dick-_

That was what did it, that was all it took: heat pulsed in his belly and creamy ribbons shot from his cock, joining the puddle already on the blanket. He bit down on the flesh in his mouth, thrusting jerkily into his hand, as one more thread of cum left his cock. He shuddered, sliding his fist up and down his cock a few more times, lightly, riding the pleasant aftershocks, then let his hand rest, wiping it quickly on his belly.

He could almost imagine Gallagher there, grinning at him, man-handling him until they were spooning, so Mickey laid on his side, curling up despite the wet spot. _I miss you_ , he admitted to his fantasy of Ian.

But his imaginary version of the redhead was gone, vanished as soon as he came.

He felt cold, and a little sad.

And very sticky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "In the care of" is the term people in recovery use to mean "in the care of a higher power." It indicates that their lives are being run by a loving, caring, powerful force that isn't their own will.  
> 2\. Character defects are usually positive traits that got warped through maladaptive coping strategies into things that hurt us. For instance, the urge to defend ourselves is healthy, but self-righteousness is that healthy behavior carried to an unhealthy extreme.  
> 3\. Just for Today is not only a recovery slogan, it is also a reading at most meetings, and a book of daily readings. The slogan is used to indicate that we don't have to use, just for today, and tomorrow will take care of itself. It doesn't mean fuck the future, so much as don't get caught up in anxiety about the future when all we can control is today.


	18. IP #5, Another Look  (Ian) December 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian talks it out, and gets a clearer picture of his higher power.  
> Chapter Soundtrack: 1x1 - Feat. Wesley Schultz by Cold War Kids, Wesley Schultz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short but 19- wow. You're either gonna love me or hate me after that one. Should be up Thursday morning.   
> \-----  
> I know the timeline is bad. Once this is finished I should go back and fix that. We'll see. I have another project planned.  
> If I missed explaining any recovery content, please leave a comment!!   
> And of course all your comments are giving me life and warming my cold, dead, 🖤.  
> \-----  
> From IP #5, Another Look  
> "1. Addiction is not freedom. We addicts value personal freedom highly, perhaps because we want it so much and experience it so seldom in the progression of our illness. Even in periods of abstinence, freedom is curtailed. We are never quite sure if any action is based in a conscious desire for continued recovery or an unconscious wish to return to using. We seek to manipulate people and conditions and control all our actions; thus we destroy spontaneity, an integral mark of freedom. We fail to realize that the need for control  
> springs from a fear of losing control. This fear, based in part on past failures and disappointments in solving life’s difficulties, prevents us from making meaningful choices; choices which, if acted upon, would remove the very fear which blocks us.  
> 2\. Addiction is not personal growth.  
> The monotonous, imitative, ritualistic, compulsive, and obsessive routines of active addiction render us incapable of responsive or meaningful thought and action.  
> 3\. Addiction is not goodwill.  
> Addiction insulates us from people, places, and things outside of our own world of getting, using, and finding ways and means to continue the process. Hostile, resentful, self-centered, and self-concerned, we cut off all outside interests as our illness progresses. We live in fear and suspicion of the very people we have to depend on for our needs... Our world shrinks and isolation is its goal. This might  
> well be the true nature of our disorder.  
> 4\. Addiction is not a way of life.  
> The sick, self-seeking, self-centered, and self-enclosed world of the addict hardly qualifies as a way of life; at best, perhaps it is a way to survive for a while. Even in this limited existence it is a way of despair, destruction, and death."

Ian had finally dragged himself out of bed that day; well, Fiona had threatened him with a bucket of cold water if he missed his psych and counseling appointments, but the point is, he got out of bed.

He snagged some clothes off the floor (they smelled clean  _ enough _ ) and went out to wait for the bus. Getting on the bus, he shoved his earbuds in, picked some Alt Rock and huddled as the bus stopped and started, chugging its way downtown. He was trying very hard not to hear his own thoughts or internal monologue, trying to focus on the songs, the scenes passing outside the window, anything else.

* * *

Once he’d arrived, checked in, gone through the usual nonsense with the PA, and waited in the small office for far longer than he could reasonably occupy his own thoughts productively, his prescribing doctor bustled in. She was a no-nonsense older Black woman, bedeviled with terrible arthritis in her hands, who wanted to know nothing beyond the superficial when she asked how he was. He admitted to feeling low, and that finally got her attention on him fully.

“How depressed are you feeling, Ian?”

“Eh, I still got out of bed. But,” he indicated his head, “this is all messed up. Loud.”

“Ok, honey, well, we can increase the Tegretol, see how that works out. But I need you to promise that if you start hearing actual voices or having thoughts of harming yourself-”

“I’ll go directly to the emergency room. I will not pass go or collect two hundred dollars.” His voice was flat, inflectionless and tired-sounding.

She eyed him sharply, both at the interruption and the out-of-place humor.

“Yes, the ER. I want to see you back here next week, too.”

After agreeing to her recommendation and getting a script for the med increase, Ian got onto the elevator to go up to the 5th floor, where Ed’s office was located.

* * *

The jungle of office-plants was as lush as ever; Ed was walking around with a tiny mister when Ian came in, giving each plant its own delicate shower. Ian sat in his usual seat, stepping carefully around the succulent that lived by his feet. He was tired, but seeing the greenery and feeling the gentle wafts of humid air felt soothing, somehow.

Ed sat, having finished his ministrations, and opened his notepad, clicking his pen to readiness. He looked up at Ian, expectantly. Ed rarely spoke first; he let Ian decide where to start, giving him agency in a situation where it was all too easy to feel powerless.

He’d planned to stay quiet, for once. Or maybe open with something innocuous, simple. Instead, a whole mess spilled out.

“I think I might have fucked something up with Mickey, but because of my fucking meds, I don’t remember all of it, and we were doing so good, I’m afraid he’ll pull away or disappear, and I don’t know if I can stay clean if he does that.”

Ed eyed him noncommittally, checking to see if there was more. There was.

“Ok, I’m not sure I  _ want  _ to stay clean if he’s not around.”

“Let’s unpack that a little, shall we?”

Ian groaned dramatically, but nodded.

“I cannot speak to your relationship with Mickey, I’m your counselor. What feelings does he offer that you cannot get from others in recovery or in your family?”

“First off, he’s changed so much. I don’t know if he was like this before he got clean, or if it’s just NA, but like- he’s not afraid anymore. Not all the time, like he used to be.”

“He’s got freedom, from who he used to be?”

“Yeah, freedom. And god, he can talk about shit, hard shit, now. That’s growth.”

“Ok, freedom and growth.”

“And,” Ian’s words were picking up speed now, disregarding Ed’s interjections. “It’s like he looks out for me, last night when shit was bad, he got me home, and I have no idea how he did it.”

“He stayed at your house last night?” Ed raised a single eyebrow.

“No, to  _ his  _ house. Which is like, crazy, because I never thought I’d step foot back in that house after- well, ever. And we slept together on the couch, and just. Slept. Together.”

“So either he or both of you, despite your impairment, felt that abstaining from sexual contact was still the way forward. That demonstrates significant maturity and caring. Goodwill, even.”

“Exactly! When I knew him before, Mickey would take any opportunity to get his dick wet, even with women, sometimes.” Ian’s voice died away, and he sat back in his chair, remembering.

“This was when he was still hiding his sexuality from his father, correct?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Might there have been an element of self-preservation in his sleeping with women at that time?”

“It just felt like- back then, if I wasn’t fucking him, he mostly didn’t give me the time of day. I was never even sure if he liked me, and when I started to think he really did, it all went to shit.”

“The sexual assault and trauma. Are you ready to start looking at that?”

“Fuck, no.” Ian pulled one knee up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it defensively.

“You know it will be covered when you write your 4th step, yes?” Ed’s voice was carefully neutral, allowing Ian to process and digest the fact that soon he’d need to write it all down on paper, and then share it.

“Maybe. I guess?”

“Ok, let’s put a pin in that topic then. What else are you getting from Mickey that you couldn’t stay in recovery without him in your life?”

“He’s like a whole new person. His sponsor takes him all these places, and he’s clean. God, that’s the weirdest thing, he’s so fucking clean, like all the time.”

“You mean physical cleanliness, rather than being abstinent from drugs, correct?”

“Yeah, he was always covered in dirt as a kid. I guess he brushed his teeth, cause he always had this big white grin on a grimy face. But now- when I hug him I can smell soap, and shampoo, and laundry soap, and - just Mickey. It’s so good.” Ian balled up his fists, using one to hit his kneecap in front of his chest rhythmically. 

“We’ve spent all this time talking about how Mickey is doing better- do you not see the same progress in your own life?”

Ian closed his eyes, and blurted out, “He’s growing and changing so much and everyone says I am but I don’t see it and what if he outgrows me before we even get a chance? What if I’m just a huge mistake for him?”

Ed hummed lightly, but didn’t say anything.

Ian opened one eye to peek at him, but Ed was studiously looking down at his notepad.

Opening both eyes, Ian waited.

“If love can be called a mistake, which I don’t believe this is,” Ed spoke gently, as if he were afraid of startling Ian, “that’s a possibility in any relationship. The risk versus the reward. All relationships end, either with a fight, or silence, with cheating, illness, or eventually with one person’s death. And most relationships aren’t meant to last a lifetime. You are the only one who can decide if this relationship is worth the risk, for now.”

“You’re not gonna tell me if I’m making a bad choice?” Ian let his leg slide down to the floor, placing both feet flat in front of him, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. 

“Ian, that’s not my job. My job is to help you look at your choices, and make the best one for you. I’m not the one who was to live with the outcome. My choices certainly wouldn’t make you happy, and I don’t expect yours to be what I would do.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of it like that. 

“It sounds a little bit like you’re still looking for a higher power who will provide constant comfort, reassurance. But what you need to be looking for is those fleeting glimpses of conscious contact, when you see your higher power’s will for you, and know it to be the right thing.”

“Yeah, I’m still working on that too.” Ian was relieved by the change in topic Ed had offered. “I know I’m not into organized religion. Still struggling to think about the things I do believe in.”

“That’s a natural part of the process. What have you identified so far?”

“I think about science a lot. You know the laws of thermodynamics?”

“I cannot say that I do.” Ed had a small smile on his face, more than willing to let Ian educate him.

“You probably had it in high school science, physics class. So the official form is about closed systems, but the version I like says that basically, shit gets messier over time.”

“Ah, entropy, I do recall something about this.”

“Yeah, the universe doesn’t like things to stay the same, and any system, no matter how hard you try, will change over time.”

“This sounds a little like chaos. Explain to me how this helps you?”

“It  _ is  _ chaotic. And I thought this up when I was clean, and not manic, before you ask. The only constant in the whole world is that things will change. If shit’s bad now, chill, it’ll change soon. If it’s good now, appreciate it, because it will change.”

“Ah, you’ve taken solid scientific principles and applied recovery to them beautifully.”

Ian held up a finger. “Not done.” He grinned, warming up to the topic. 

Ed tilted his chin encouragingly as Ian continued.

“There’s also the laws of matter. They say that matter cannot be created or destroyed, it only changes form. So loss, or death, is just a form change.”

“I can see how that could be comforting.”

“Yeah, it all sounds good, but try explaining that when someone asks what your higher power is.” Ian was glum again, reminded of the basic issue he’d started from.

“It sounds very clear to me- you’re using established scientific theory.”

“So when someone asks me what my higher power is, I say ‘Science, bitch’?”

Ed laughed at that. 

“Something like that, yes.”

There was a natural pause in their conversation while Ed wrote some notes. 

Ian breathed in, letting it out slowly through his nose. “I actually feel a little- lighter?”

“That’s good news. You should still follow the med change you were prescribed, but hopefully this was just a speedbump, and not a washout.”

Ian sighed, “I still need to talk to Mickey tonight, see what’s up. What I did, what he thinks.”

“If Mickey is as full of growth and goodwill as you say, I’d be hopeful.”

“No guarantees though, right?”

  
“I can guarantee that if it all goes badly, I’ll be here to help you. So will your sponsor. And your family. That’s quite a lot of people behind you.”

It… was. He forgot, sometimes, that he wasn’t out there on his own anymore. 

“Thanks, doc.”

“You are very welcome, Ian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I do a lot of identification with Ian's symptoms, but I do not have Bipolar, so if I have mischaracterized his experience, my apologies.  
> 2\. Medications are name dropped only to show that Ian's disease is real, not to try and shill for them. Tegretol is a mood stabilizer.  
> 3\. Ed is clearly familiar with the tenets of NA.   
> 4\. The 4th step is when you write down everything that has ever happened to you, basically. The good and the bad, looking especially at how you played a role in it. For instance, if you were in a toxic relationship and didn't leave because you were afraid to be alone, that's 4th step material. It is NOT about victim blaming. It does cover everything from resentments, feelings, guilt, shame, fear, relationships (not just sexual and romantic), sex, abuse, and ends with an accounting of your personal moral assets. This step is where it goes from being about the drugs to mostly about ourselves, and it's where the rubber meets the road, so to speak. Many people with substance use disorders struggle to face their pasts and relapse around this time in recovery.  
> 5\. So last week I have in 4 different meetings that all had the same reading, "When we realize what we have been seeking is not  
> conscious contact but constant comfort, we are appalled." The idea is that our higher power isn't a pacifier but a vast, caring force.


	19. IP #13 By Young Addicts (Mickey) December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey blows up his life- total self sabotage.  
> Chapter Soundtrack: Who’s Gonna Love Me Now - Cold War Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this chapter came from my beta, who is an amazing, brilliant person. All mistakes are my own.  
> \----  
> It is important to me to say that Keats isn’t a bad person in this fic, at all. If Mickey is poking fun at him, that’s Mickey’s shit, not because Keats should be viewed as having made mistakes.  
> \----  
> There may be minor changes to this chapter after publication.  
> Ch 20 is done too, and the DRAMA will continue. But yeah, there will 100% be a happy ending for this fic.  
> \----  
> IP #13  
> “Sex, Drugs, and . . .”  
> As young members, coming to terms with our sexuality in recovery can be difficult. Our experiences with sex can include anything from our sexual orientation to break-ups, pregnancy, unmanageability, confusion, and shame or guilt about things we’ve done or things that happened to us. We’ll hear lots of opinions and suggestions about sex and relationships in recovery. We may not always listen to what others have to say, but we can make an effort to talk openly with our sponsor and other members we trust. Sometimes our feelings about sex and relationships make drugs start to seem like a solution again. Instead, we share what we’re going through and ask for guidance and support. Recovery will help us get through our feelings clean. When we share honestly about ourselves, we’re an example for others."

He’d finished going over his third step with AJ, and started doggedly on the fourth. In between the home visit to inspect his house before Tina came to stay had happened. Mickey had done his best to clean up the house and yard, but he knew his house was still a shithole. He had hoped Zara would do the inspection and give him a pass, but Zara wasn’t there, though the supervisor noted she’d noted her “enthusiastic support” for his application, and let him know he’d hear back in a week or so, right before Christmas. 

AJ had suggested that he start with the hardest sections of the fourth step, to get them out of the way. So he’d plowed into the Guilt and Abuse sections. Now he was waking up every night in a cold sweat, nightmares plaguing him. The lack of deep sleep was making him even crankier during the day, and he was starting to doubt himself, the program of NA, and everyone around him. 

Any form of touching was suddenly making his skin crawl: he’d asked AJ to skip Gallagher’s home group that week, and the older man had agreed, seeing how unsettled he was. How could Ian hug him like a tender thing when he’d had to watch what that Russian bitch had done? What his own father had done? His brain was looping a negative refrain, day and night.

 _Good things are not for me. I am fucked for life. I ruin everything I touch. This will all disappear in one blink, if I take my eye off it for a moment, I’ll be back on the couch, watching him cry. Good things are_ **_not_ ** _for me._

Something was missing in his life. He didn’t want to accept that it could be drugs, so he was searching for other, external things to change how he felt inside. 

Was it fucking he missed? He really didn’t have extensive experience with the type of fucking he dreamed about, the only person he’d trusted to fuck him like that was Gallagher. Nearly every other time, with men or with the women he’d hooked up with to appease his father, he’d had to do the fucking. Topping, he knew, was the technical term. But every time since the thing with his father and Gallagher that day- _topping_ made him want to puke. He’d be throwing it into someone, swallowing desperately to keep his stomach acid down. Part of the reason his substance use had gotten so out of hand was to suppress and keep down the memories of that afternoon. His joke to Ian about teaching him how good it felt to have something in his ass was pure bravado- he emphatically did not want to be the one in the relationship _topping_.

And maybe he needed more experience before he settled down, or started a relationship, or whatever the fuck Gallagher seemed to be offering. He wasn’t _scared_ of commitment, but it had been a hot minute since he’d done anything seriously intimate with another guy, and maybe he was bad at sex. He knew he could kiss ok, or at least well enough for Gallagher to watch his lips anytime their heads got too close together, whispering during the meeting. But what about all the other shit- the dating shit? Mickey knew full well Thanksgiving had _not_ been a date. Not _really_. It had been about their reconnecting, trying out spending time together, sort of play-acting what a future together might look like. 

That really felt like putting the cart before the horse, like Gallagher had taken one look at him in recovery and said ‘That’s the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.’ And while that was flattering, of fucking course it was, he didn’t feel like he had a say in it. Maybe Mickey needed to see if what he had with Ian was truly special, or just how he felt about anyone putting a great dick up his ass?

* * *

He knew what AJ would say. He knew, because he made the mistake of telling AJ what he’d been thinking. It was the first time he’d seen AJ look like he wanted to smack Mickey, but then he’d just rolled his eyes. “It’s your future to fuck up, kid.”

He also knew what Emily thought, and the disappointment in her eyes- wow. He’d brushed it off, snarking at her about being more into his imaginary relationship with Gallagher than she was into his staying clean. It had been harsh, he knew it as he said it. She hadn’t outright said he was making a mistake, it was just strongly implied.

Iggy outright said he was making a mistake. Well, he said specifically “You’re a special kinda stupid, ain’t ya?” And then Mandy walked in, agreed, and asked why Mickey was an idiot today. When he explained that he was bad for Gallagher, and that the guy was talking long-term commitment and shit and maybe his own feelings were just a result of being dick-drunk, she punched him in the left arm, _hard_.

“Do you even know how many nights I stayed up, trying to come up with schemes to get Ian Gallagher to fuck me?” She was crowding him, getting into his space now. “Not even care about me _romantically_ , or want a future with me, just to throw me a fuck? And you wanna blow off the best guy I ever met, because, I quote ‘I don’t know if I like him or it’s just cause I’ve never been fucked by anyone else?’” She poked him in the chest for emphasis, “You’re not an idiot, you’re a world-class _moron_ , Mickey Milkovich, and I am embarrassed to be related to you.” She retreated back to lean on the door frame and scowled at him menacingly. 

“He’ll be better off without me hangin around him all the time,” Mickey stated stubbornly. 

Mandy stared at him, open mouthed for a moment. “Fuck you, ‘he’ll be better off’. Doesn’t he get a say?”

That was eerily close to AJ’s argument of the past weeks, but Mickey wasn’t budging, the self-loathing narrative in his mind running a loop.

_I don’t get good shit, I don’t get to keep sweetness in my life; if I have learned nothing else, I know: Love is not for me. I am too damaged, too broken, too fucked for life. No program, no counseling, no sponsor will change that. Good things are not for me. I deserve to be with someone like me, someone broken._

* * *

He felt like he needed to move on, get someone on his level, a little trashy, or at least someone who didn’t have an idealized preconception of him. And what better place to find someone else broken than a dating app? He’d heard stories about the kind of men who were on there, lonely losers. _Just like him, perfect_.

Mickey wanted to download a dating app on his phone, but Mandy categorically refused to help him, and Iggy high-tailed it out of the house before Mickey could do more than look in his direction. He was left with the ancient laptop, which now made a low grinding noise anytime he had more than one application running. Nevertheless, Mickey googled “gay man dating site” and there was a lot of weeding to do. He eliminated the obvious ads, the scams, the ‘never gonna happens’ (Gaycupid.com), and the sites clearly just for sex (Grindr), he was left with Scruff, mostly because the site didn’t have any shitty banner ads. 

The site asked him a ton of questions about himself but the big push was pictures. He uploaded exactly [ one picture of himself ](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/693719112397242368/9kSdMZF7_400x400.jpg). Mandy had taken it three winters ago, he was threatening to punch the camera, but half smiling. His knuckle tattoo was clearly visible, he was pale as fuck, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but he didn’t have a ton of other good options.

Then, he had to check off a list of what he was looking for:

Gender and Sexual Identity: Gay or bisexual men

Age: Within 5 years +/- of his age. ( _No viagroid daddy-types or sugar babies_.)

Height: 5’11” and above. ( _He knew that it was superficial and also hypocritical, but he liked what he liked_.)

He searched with those criteria, but there were over 14,000 results returned, so he had to narrow it down further.

Hair color: Brown, Black. ( _He wasn’t into blondes or baldies._ )

Reluctantly, he checked off the box for “Red,” without thinking about it too deeply.

Looking for: Short Term Dating

Language spoken: English

Education: Any

Pets: Owns Dogs, Would like to Own Dogs, Pet-Friendly. ( _Had to think about Tina, here_.)

Distance: Within 5 miles of 60609

Body type: Thin, Fit, Average, Jacked, Curvy, A little extra, Full Figured

Smoking: Sometimes, Often

Drugs: Never ( _Growth_.)

He started to peruse the results, scanning the pictures, looking at the muscles, tans, and endless pictures of men in front of exotic skylines, men with fancy drinks in their hands, men with their arms around bodies with the head blocked out. The first incoming message popped up within a minute. It was a dude stationed outside the US, and while he looked rugged and pretty hot in camouflage, the profile looked like it came straight outta scam-city. Opening the message, he shook his head in irritation. 

From: CaptAwesome

To: NotUrMouse

_hey_

Fuck, “ _hey_.” Messages like that showed no initiative or effort, in Mickey’s opinion. 

**Delete**. 

He returned to browsing the men on display, like they were fruit and he was looking for the perfect watermelon. Soon, he was down the rabbit hole, scrolling through profiles and scrutinizing each man’s photos and profile for clues about them.

Another message popped up.

From: LitLife

To: NotUrMouse

_Hi there! Your tattoo is really cool- what does it mean?_

Mickey went to visit LitLife’s profile. He wasn’t a red-head and while he did have a profile picture holding a fruity drink, he also had one of him lying on his back with a black and tan dog draped over his chest ( _bonus points_ ). He was squinting into the sunlight, and when Mickey zoomed in (and brought the screen within an inch of his eyes) he could see that there was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that made him look younger than his purported 34 years old. 

He could work with this, he realized, so he shot the guy a quick reply.

From: NotUrMouse

To: LitLife

_No one ever told you what ‘fuck’ means?_

Then, realizing his words could come off as brusque, he added, 

_Every guy in my family has knuckle tattoos. My other hand has U-UP._

Totally less harsh, right?

Apparently the guy was at his computer too, because he sent a response almost immediately.

From: LitLife

To: NotUrMouse

_Wow! Pretty badass. You wanna get coffee?_

Coffee. That was a thing, coffee dates. The guy was asking Mickey on a date. He gritted his teeth and plunged onwards.

From: NotUrMouse

To: LitLife

_Ok. When?_

From: LitLife

To: NotUrMouse

_Tonight? I have a ride, so I can meet you downtown. You like Jackalope?_

A quick Google search revealed that this wasn’t a question about cryptids, which would have been cool, but the name of a local hipster coffee and tea shop. 

From: NotUrMouse

To: LitLife

_5pm._

That way, if it went well, he could have some time before the meeting, and if it was shitty, he could leave on the truthful excuse that he had somewhere to be.

From: LitLife

To: NotUrMouse

_See you there! BTW my name’s Keats._

From: NotUrMouse

To: LitLife

_Mickey._

From: LitLife

To: NotUrMouse

_LOL you're funny!_

_Har har_ , Mickey thought sarcastically, then tried to rein his negative thoughts in. This could be the love of his life he was laughing at! But really- _Keats_? Who named their kid Keats?

* * *

Mickey wasn’t early to the date, and he wasn’t late. The bus, on the other hand, was 15 minutes late, so when he walked up, he could already see a small man staring anxiously at his phone. Mickey pulled out his own phone and saw _12 missed messages_ from the app. No guesses as to who those were from.

Trying to project confidence, Mickey sauntered up, and took a moment to look the guy up and down. He was not 6’2”. Maybe 5’2”, cause Mickey had a few inches on him. 

Was Mickey a shallow bitch? He was not; he was trying to be a fucking mature adult, so he faked a grin and stuck out his hand for a shake. 

Keats jumped, surprised, and pulled two ostentatiously shiny AirPods out of his ears. _Of course_ he had custom chrome-plated AirPods. 

“Mickey?” He took Mickey’s offered hand in both of his, a grip that was both clammy and too warm in the cold air. 

“In the flesh. Hey.” Mickey wrenched his hand back, and as subtly as he could he wiped it on his jeans.

“Do you like it?” Keats had turned and was facing the coffee shop.

“Never been in.”

Keats let out a light laugh, “No, silly, my bike.” He pointed to an aqua-colored Vespa sitting by the curb in front of the cafe. 

“That’s yours?” Mickey raised one eyebrow. Custom AirPods, a Vespa, this kid had cash, if not taste.

“Yeah, I hate being in a box when I have to get around. It’s really practical too- it’s electric?”

“No shit?” The only thing possibly more pretentious than a Vespa was an electric Vespa. ~~Gallagher would eat this guy for lunch, and then they’d laugh~~ \- Mickey focused on the man in front of him, who was waiting a little anxiously for Mickey’s admiration.

“That’s- that’s real eco-conscious of you.” It was the only compliment Mickey could come up with, but it seemed to satisfy Keats, as he lavished Mickey in praise.

“You look great, your hair and your outfit! So chic! I wasn’t sure in your picture- you know how some guys take shots from the chest up because they have a bad body, but you look fine! The tattoos are barely even noticeable…”

Mickey let the words wash over him, ignoring the implicit insults, wondering if it was too late to back out. But the thought of everyone lording his mistake over him, rubbing his face in it like he was a dumb piece of shit- he was here, might as well keep going.

He interrupted Keats’ continuing flow of bullshit, “Cold as shit out here- wanna go inside?”

Keats didn’t even seem to mind the interruption: he smiled widely showing off vaguely yellow teeth, and followed Mickey up the concrete steps. 

_Fucking pussy._

Whether he meant Keats or himself was unclear, even to him.

They ordered drinks, Keats getting some overcomplicated beverage that he ordered in _Italian_ , before the barista explained that she didn’t speak _Italian_ , and then he said it again in English, but slowly, like she was dumb. Mickey had looked up the menu online before he left, picking out a drink that had coffee, whipped cream, and a shit-ton of chocolate syrup. Keats had his wallet out already, and shoo-ed him off to go find a table, picking up the tab. Mickey shrugged; the guy clearly had the cash to spare.

He picked a table for two in front of a large plate glass window, overlooking the street where a few snowflakes were swirling out of a gray sky. There was a four-top table nearby, with four older women seated, sipping tea, discussing a novel, and avoiding staring at Mickey.

Keats finally joined him, and set down a plate with a chocolate filled croissant. He watched in horror as Mickey unscrewed the lid of the sugar pourer, dumping in about half a cup of sugar to his already-sweetened drink.

“Gosh, you really like sugar, huh?”

Mickey took a sip and savored, before responding concisely, “Yup.” Then he grabbed the croissant and took a giant bite, dripping crispy crumbs all over the table. 

He glanced up at Keats who was slack jawed. “Oh hey, thanks, what’re you gonna eat?”

“I figured we’d - share it?” The smaller man was still watching Mickey’s lips, which annoyed him, even though he knew it was a good thing. 

“Nah, that ain’t gonna work.”

Keats shook his head, and smiled tightly. “I just got out of a long term relationship, you know, and my therapist said-”

 _Of course Keats had a therapist_. 

No matter that Mickey had one too. In his mind, Emily was different, somehow.

“-that the important thing was to get back on the horse! So I joined Scruff this week, and there you were- like fate or something.” Keats wasn’t drinking his coffee, he was resting his face on one hand and staring dopily at Mickey’s face. 

“What, do I got shit on my face?” He swiped quickly at his cheek, as Keats let out an honest-to-god giggle. 

_Grown men shouldn’t giggle._ ~~_Except when Gallgher was really tired he would-_ ~~

“No, I just can’t get over how handsome you are in person! You really need a better picture- wanna take a selfie together?” Keats was already pulling out his iPhone as he asked.

“Nah, man, I don’t-”

“-Don’t be shy! It’s our first date and we should have a record of how great we looked.”

Mickey gave in. It seemed like the best way to stop the absurdity. 

Keats stood and came to crouch beside Mickey, their faces close, holding his phone at arm’s length in front of them. “Ok, now smile!”

Mickey tried, he really was in the process of pulling up the corners of his mouth into the approximation of a smile, when at the last second, Keats turned, not looking at the camera anymore, and dropped a wet kiss on Mickey’s cheek just as the camera sounded.

Mickey leapt back, upsetting his chair in the process, nearly flipping the table, roughly rubbing his cheek with his sleeve; Keats was still crouched beside the table, arm extended, face crumpling like he was about to cry. Everyone in the place was staring, particularly the biddies at next table. 

_Oh, fuck, this was bad._

“Nothin to see here, just me being a clumsy ass.” 

_Were they buying it?_

Slowly, carefully, Mickey picked up his chair, and set it down quietly. The women at the next table decided the show was over, and went back to their teacups. He maneuvered Keats into the seat, and sat down across from him, in Keats’s previous spot. The threatening tears had abated but Keats was still sniffling, so Mickey handed him a wad of recycled napkins from the table dispenser.

“Here. I’m- uh, I’m sorry about that. You surprised me.”

_At least he hadn’t cold-cocked the guy. Growth. Or was that goodwill?_

“It’s ok,” Keats sniffled, “I should have asked for consent beforehand, I know better, it’s really my fault.” He dabbed delicately at his eye with the clump of napkins.

“Jesus fuck, man, you can’t treat people like they’re gonna break all the time. One kiss on the cheek won’t kill me. Just- a little jumpy.”

_You can’t treat people like they’re gonna break all the time._

His own words echoed in his mind, like they were significant.

Keats gave him a watery smile. “I really like you, Mickey.”

“What? Why?” He hadn’t meant to sound dismissive of himself, but his disbelief spoke before his ego could chime in.

“You’re being really nice to me, you seem so normal, and you’re really hot.”

“Dude, if this is what qualifies as nice, you have some issues to work through. And I ain’t normal. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me?” The question came out hesitantly, like he thought Mickey was going to be mean or shut him down. Mickey just wasn’t in the mood to live down to that expectation for this guy. 

He just let the words burst out, “My mother’s gone, probably dead, cause she was sick as fuck last time I saw her, but that could have been the drugs, my father’s in jail, he tried to kill me when I was in high school cause he found me with a guy, and I still get migraines and shit sometimes from that. My brother’s useless and my sister is a total skank. I can only have sex when I’m high, but I don’t use drugs or drink anymore, cause I’m on Drug Court, and if I fuck that up, I go to jail and my father will definitely put a hit on me in there. But I still need something up my ass at least once a week or I get real bitchy. Plus, my ex goes to all the same meetings as me, and everyone in the program wants us to be together. So does he. But I ain’t sure I’m ready, and maybe I’m bad for him, you know?”

Keats’s eyes were wide, but he nodded in agreement. “I totally get it, my ex was in AA and he was doing so well, his sponsor used to come over for dinner once a month and I’d cook for us all.”

_No shit._

“No shit?”

“Yeah, and then Shelly fell off the wagon, and he disappeared for like two weeks, and when he came back he wanted to be with me again, like nothing happened, but I was so worried the whole time he was gone, so I said no.”

“Sounds like you're scared.” Mickey heard the words coming out of his mouth, in his own voice, but it was AJ’s brain, his sponsor’s thought processes that came up with the words.

Keats shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes on his drink as he sipped, which _maybe_ meant Mickey was right.

“You love him, right?”

Now the smaller man did nod. 

“Then go back to him, make him happy. If you're gonna break up, then you will. You'll move on, but at least you’ll be happy for a while.”

“Wow, Mickey- you’re so smart, too!”

_The fawning was a little much._

“Nah, man, I just had a lot of therapy and shit. Maybe go with him to a few meetings. Uh- hey, how did you realize you loved him?”

Keats was more than happy to retell the story, “Oh my gosh, it was so beautiful, we were in a garden outside the city, it was June and we were walking down a path, and he turned back to me, the sun was right behind him so it looked like he was shining, like the light was coming _from_ him, and I just though ‘When you know, you know,’ you know?”

Mickey gulped the cold remains of his drink. 

_When you know, you know, huh?_

The rest of the non-date washed over Mickey, mostly he just listened to Keats extol the virtues of his ex, now seeming determined to welcome him back into his life.

They parted on friendly terms, shaking hands again, before Keats started up his Vespa and scooted off, leaving Mickey to walk in the slush to the bus stop with just his thoughts.

* * *

He hadn’t apprised AJ of his date, so there was no text waiting to debrief with him. But he’d gotten used to sharing emotional shit, not holding it in, so as soon as he slid into AJ’s SUV that evening, it all came spilling out.

“And then he started talking about how great his ex was- definitely the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

AJ gave him the side-eye, “Oh cause you’re an expert now, Mr. Thanksgiving doesn’t-even-count?”

“Ey, fuck you. I’m just saying, the kid lied on his dating profile about his height, he tried to impress me with stupid shit, and then he spent waaaay too much time talking about his ex. I think I convinced him to give the guy another chance, at least.”

“Did you now? Why’d you do that?”

“Cause he loved him. Going on dates with other people was just his way of coping with fear.”

“Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, I caught that as I was saying it, too.” Mickey’s tone was chagrined.

“So what’d you learn?”

“Is there always gotta be a lesson with you?”

“Well, if you don’t learn something, you’re more likely to do the same dumb shit again. So again, what’s the take away?”

“Well, first of all, I only did it cause I’m afraid of some feelings. And second, everyone on earth annoys the shit out of me, including Gallagher, but him less so than some. He’s it for me, I think. Third,” he paused to consider, “you may have been right when you said I was makin’ a mistake.”

“No kidding?” AJ was a sarcastic little shit but Mickey was too, which is why they got along. “Does this mean you might take my suggestion next time?”

“Eh, we’ll see. No promises, but I can try.”

“That’s a third step in your life, right there. What are you gonna tell him?”

Mickey knew which _him_ AJ meant. 

“Not gonna. Doesn’t need to know,” Mickey was resolutely determined on this. It might fuck up Gallagher worse.

“This is a terrible plan. The suspense is terrible, I hope it’ll last.”

“Look, I admitted he’s the one, whatever the fuck that means. Can’t we just keep it moving?”

“Our secrets keep us sick, Mickey. You of all people know that.”

“If it protects him, I’ll stay sick- wait, I recognize that sounds fucked up. Lemme think about this.”

_Can’t I just- not tell him? Until we’re, like, old and wrinkly and he can’t leave even if he wants to?_

* * *

Despite his conversation with AJ, Mickey felt confident that he’d be able to keep the whole thing a secret until he was in the produce aisle of the Jewel a few days later, and a ball of romaine lettuce narrowly missed his head. He’d ducked- thought the throw had been a good one. He had Terry to thank for _those_ reflexes.

He looked around wildly.

“Mickey Milkovich!” The angry voice rose in pitch from the first syllable of his name to the last- was that _Ian’s_ voice?

A nectarine, or maybe a peach, smacked the top of his head, and he ducked, throwing his hands up over his head, like that was gonna protect him. He huddled down next to a pyramid of red onions, knowing that was asking for trouble. The next shot was an eggplant, and it toppled the onion pyramid, so Mickey ended up crouching, half kneeling, hands over his head, in a pile of vegetables, in his heavy winter coat. 

“What the fuck? _Gallagher_?”

Ian stood at the end of the aisle, each hand holding a cabbage, one green and one purple. He tossed each up in the air in turn before catching them deftly. 

_He’s pissed_ , Mickey realized. _But why?_

“Why the fuck are you throwing shit at me in the grocery store?”

Ian’s retort came immediately, “Why the fuck are you kissing other guys?”

Mickey just stared up at him from his crouched position, rendered momentarily speechless. Then he recovered.

“Don’t know what you heard, but I ain’t kissed nobody since _you_ at that shitty Halloween thing.”

“Oh you think I’m dumb? I’m not fucking _stupid_ , I saw the picture, Mickey!”

At that, Mickey sprang to his feet, poking his index finger into Gallagher’s broad chest. 

“Whatever you _think_ you saw, I didn’t do shit.” His tone was as mean as he could make it when he was that scared, his pulse beating rapidly in the edges of his vision.

Ian let the cabbages drop, and whipped his phone out between them, tapping the screen with his finger. When he’d found whatever he was looking for, he held the screen directly in front of Mickey’s face.

It was the picture Keats had taken at Jackalope. Where he was kissing Mickey’s cheek. Mickey’s eyes were caught sliding towards Keats in a way that _could_ look like appreciation, except Mickey had been there and knew he was a half second from flipping out and practically leaping out of his skin. 

He ducked his head, and took two small steps backwards until his butt was resting against a fruit display. “S’ not what it looks like.”

“Oh really? Cause it looks like you went on a fucking date with some rich asshole and he kissed you and you liked it.”

Mickey gave a dismissive snort of laughter. “Didn’t _like_ shit. Nearly hit him. I’m a fucking trainwreck.”

Ian softened, not much, but his whole postural tightness relaxed slightly. 

“Oh, Mick, what did you do?”

 _He thinks I fucked up. Of_ **_course_ ** _he does._

“Just ask me what you wanna know, Gallagher.” He gritted the words out, taking short breaths to try to prepare for the pain.

“Did you sleep with him, Mickey? Did he fuck you?”

 _Why is it_ _always_ _about fucking?_

“Jesus, I have done zero fucking with other dudes since- since before you showed up at rehab, basically. No one else has fucked me. Like, _ever_.”

“Wait, really?” Ian looked both confused and pleased, which was- _whatever_.

“Really. I did all the fuckin for a long time. Didn’t even want to kiss this kid. You’re under my skin, man.”

Ian looked elated, at first, then rapidly deflated. “But I can’t even fuck you now.”

Mickey stepped up to him again and punched him on the right pectoral muscle. “You stupid shit, I didn’t even get fucked when I didn’t know if you were alive or in the military or shit. I can wait for that. Your broken dick doesn’t matter two shits to me.”

“But then why’d you do it, Mick? Why were you out with that guy at all?”

Mickey looked ashamed, and shuffled his feet, rolling an onion down the aisle. 

_Because I was scared._

“I- I thought I needed to give you space. That I might be hurtin your recovery. And you were so certain about us, and I was- I was scared.”

“I’m still confused about why you never let anyone else f-”

Mickey cut him off impatiently. “-Cause of what happened! The idea of not- not havin control, over my body- s’ too much. You were there- you saw! Same with feeling-” he gestured between their two bodies impatiently with one hand, “-too much. Feelings are a lot to handle, you know?” 

He was working himself up towards a panic attack, and he knew it. If he didn’t shut this down soon he’d start throwing shit himself, food or punches or curses, or all three.

Ian didn’t say anything, but he seemed to understand as [ he stepped in close to Mickey ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a2/15/6b/a2156bfba673a3373508f0a465ca98f1.jpg), into the bubble of personal space that he had defended so vociferously his whole life. He laid one hand gently between and below Mickey’s shoulder blades, pulling him in. When Mickey relaxed into his hold, Ian brought his other hand to the nape of Mickey’s neck, thumb stroking up behind his ear. Mickey’s warm mouth was open and panted shuddering breaths against the base of his neck. They stood like that for a minute, in the messy aisle of the grocery store. 

“I do know, Mick.” Ian whispered to him. “It’s ok. I’m here.”

It wasn’t all fixed: Ian’s worries and mental illness, and Mickey’s fears and trauma, they were all still there, a river of shit in front of them, Mickey knew. But at least they were on the same side of the river now. They could face whatever came, together. 

_When you know, you know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The 4th step is when you write down everything that has ever happened to you, the good and the bad, looking especially at how you played a role in it. It covers everything from resentments, feelings, guilt, shame, fear, relationships (not just sexual and romantic), sex, abuse, and ends with an accounting of your personal moral assets. What AJ does here, having Mickey work on the sections out of order is a controversial choice, but it worked narratively, so...  
> 2\. Mickey is clearly processing his trauma, and that can look very messy for a while, even though it is a healthy part of the process.  
> 3\. It is also not unusual for people in recovery to harbor feelings of unworthiness, even well into clean time. It's like imposter syndrome.  
> 4\. Not everyone in recovery looks for a partner who doesn't drink or use drugs, but having access to substances can be difficult for many.  
> 5\. What is the right name for a sugar pourer????  
> 6\. Third step is accepting a higher power into your life and turning your will over. In practice, that's taking advise from people whose opinions you value.  
> 7\. "Secrets keep us sick." This is a common 12-step saying, emphasizing that keeping secrets damages us. We all need someone to know the worst things about us, and when we start hiding something, a behavior or choice, it means we recognize that it could harm us.  
> 8\. Jackalope is real coffee shop, and I am sure they're lovely.  
> 9\. If I missed anything, just post in the comments and I will update!! <3


	20. IP #6 Relapse and Recovery (Ian) (Dec 13th -Dec 20th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Austin returns, Michelle gives advice, and Ian makes two steps forward and one step back.  
> Chapter Soundtrack: Honeybee: The Head and the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some comments asked for Austin’s return. This may not be the last we see of him.  
> Timeline is getting back on track. Yay!  
> Writing is going slowly, but the quality is still there, so I will persist.  
> Just to confirm- this fic splits mostly from canon after 3x06, and entirely after S3.  
> Christmas is coming, and also New Year's Eve...  
> If I missed any explanations, please do comment!  
> \----  
> IP #6 Relapse and Recovery  
> “Our personal stories may vary in individual pattern but, in the end, we all have the same thing in common. This common illness or disorder is addiction. We know well the two things that make up true addiction: obsession and compulsion. Obsession—that fixed idea that takes us back, time and time again, to our particular drug, or some substitute, to recapture the ease and comfort we once knew. Compulsion—once having started the process with one fix, one pill, or one drink, we cannot stop through our own power of will. Because of our physical sensitivity to drugs, we are completely in the grip of a destructive power greater than ourselves.”

Ian and Mickey had picked up the fruit and vegetables to the best of their ability, then Mickey’s phone rang. It had been Mandy, telling him he had to come home, immediately, because someone was there dropping something off early? Ian hadn’t gotten the specific details or even had a chance to ask: Mickey had apologized and stalked out of the store, leaving Ian alone and confused.

* * *

The next morning, Ian woke up with a start, hands gripping the thin blanket tightly. He’d been dreaming of Mickey, of twining their fingers together, draping his leg over Mickey’s warm thigh, pressing his lips to the pale column of his neck. He’d heard himself whispering _something_ , but the words kept sliding away from his waking mind. He burrowed back down, pulling his pillow over his head, trying to find his way back to Dream!Mickey. The scene felt too detailed to be just a dream, like it was partially a memory. 

Snippets of a conversation were drifting back to him as he lay, half awake and half asleep:

_“I wanna talk about us. I want to be with you. And no one else. No fake marriages, no Russian hookers, just us.”_

_Mickey’s reply, “But you know, we can’t.”_

Had he _cried_ at that? Was _that_ how they’d left it? No wonder Mickey was confused, frustrated, and going on dates with other guys. He’d _told_ Ian they couldn’t be together but Ian hadn’t gotten the memo.

He was wide awake now, staring at his leak-stained ceiling in horror. What had Mickey thought, when he’d fucking attacked him in the grocery store, demanding he explain the picture Mandy had sent him. He’d acted like he had a right to Mickey’s exclusive attention when really, Mickey had been totally transparent about his boundary; Ian just hadn’t fucking _respected_ it. He used the heels of his hands to scrub at his face until his eyes saw white and took a deep breath. 

_Ok, I can fix this._

But first, coffee. 

* * *

Later, with sufficient caffeine in his bloodstream, and after a run and a shower, Ian sat down to text Michelle. He just felt too- uncertain, maybe? Too _something_ to talk to her directly, if he could avoid it. He hadn’t even apprised her of the supermarket drama the day before- just gone off half-cocked and full of righteous anger that had all been soothed away when Mickey told him he’d never let anyone else be with him like Ian. But now he had to catch Michelle up in a hurry.

 **Ian G (10:27 AM):** busy???

 **Michelle S (10:29 AM):** Nope, what’s up?

 **Ian G (10:30 AM):** Uh alot actually Mickeys sister mandy showed me a picture of him kissing- well being kissed by ano ther guy and I went to find him and ended up throwing vegeatbesl in the grocery store at him and it turned out ok bc the kiss was a mistake but then i remembered what i said to him last week and aperently he told me we cldnt be together and i FORGOT 😱😱😱😱

 **Michelle S (10:31 AM):** whoa

 **Ian G (10:31 AM):** I KNOW !!!!!!!

 **Michelle S (10:32 AM):** Mickey kissed someone else?

 **Ian G (10:32 AM):** no the guy kissed him his cheek only and i saw the pic and assssumed 📷

 **Michelle S (10:34 AM):** Ok. Mickey told you he did NOT want to be with you?

 **Ian G (10:34 AM):** yes

 **Ian G (10:34 AM):** well no he said he cant b with me 😮😰😭

 **Michelle S (10:35 AM):** That’s actually a big difference.

 **Ian G (10:35 AM):** is it how is it❓❔❓❔

 **Michelle S (10:36 AM):** Setting aside your throwing produce in a public space, it sounds like you need to talk to him. Why was he out with another guy?

 **Ian G (10:37 AM):** do i hav to apologize to a store really? He wuz out bc he dsnt want to b with me

 **Michelle S (10:38 AM):** But why can’t he be with you?

 **Michelle S (10:38 AM):** And yes, you will need to apologize to the store manager. You could have gotten arrested for that.

 **Ian G (10:39 AM):** i wasnt thinking i was so MAD i dont know why he cnt b with me tho, he said not bc of my 🍆 tho

 **Michelle S (10:40 AM):** Well that’s good news, at least. You need to talk to him.

 **Ian G (10:40 AM):** i am tired of talking its sooooo hard

 **Michelle S (10:41 AM):** Welcome to adulthood, my friend.

 **Ian G (10:41 AM):** **👶👉👈**

 **Michelle S (10:42 AM):** I don’t know what those emojis mean

 **Ian G (10:43 AM):** im baby **👶👶👶👶**

 **Michelle S (10:43 AM):** 😒

 **Ian G (10:43 AM):** lollololllloooll

 **Michelle S (10:44 AM):** Do you know the primary spiritual principle, Ian? The one all the others derive from?

 **Ian G (10:44 AM):** no 

**Michelle S (10:46 AM):** It’s love. You have love for Mickey, and he has love for you, but that doesn’t mean a romantic relationship is right for you two. You’re still in early recovery, and he seems to be setting a clear boundary that you will need to respect.

 **Ian G (10:47 AM):** but he hugged me after the vegetttabless 🍄🍅🍆🌽

 **Michelle S (10:47 AM):** You should know by now that hugging isn’t always sexual or romantic.

 **Ian G (10:48 AM):** ughgghhh

 **Michelle S (10:49 AM):** You’re doing good work to address your insecurities, maybe now Mickey needs your love and help to get past his.

 **Ian G (10:49 AM):** mickey is the least inscure 👦 EVER

 **Michelle S (10:50 AM):** Somehow I doubt that.

 **Ian G (10:51 AM):** need to thnk - c u at the mtng tonit?

 **Michelle S (10:52 AM):** Wouldn’t miss it. See you then! 

* * *

Ian arrived at their homegroup the customary 30 minutes early. It had snowed the whole day, and there were dirty drifts everywhere, meaning everyone would be running late. Michelle hadn’t arrived yet, but there was a car in the lot, one he vaguely recognized. When the person got out and started walking over to the entrance, he gave an internal groan. It was Austin. He held his ground, waited for the man to open the door and greeted him, albeit a little coolly, trying to figure out whether or not Austin was under the influence again.

“Hey, Ian. I’m- I’m clean, again.” Austin’s whole body posture was cringing, apologetic.

“That’s cool. You uh- you want your hug?” Ian would do his job, no matter what, even if he never wanted any of this man’s skin on him ever again.

“I think it’s better if I don’t, actually.” 

Ian nodded, understanding. It was like drugs, one was too many and a thousand, never enough. If Austin hugged him, the guy would likely want more than that, even though he knew Ian wasn’t ~~available~~ . ~~Interested~~ . _Whatever_.

“You’re still pretty early, meeting doesn’t start for another 25 minutes or so.”

“No, I know, I- wanted to speak to you privately, but I figured you wouldn’t want me to have your number or go somewhere like, _private_ private, so this was a good solution.”

“Uh huh.” Ian wasn’t sure where this was going, and he peeked through the door, quickly scanning the lot, hoping someone else was pulling in. No dice.

“So I’m not on, like, a 9th step, but I’ve been feeling really bad about how I acted, and my sponsor said I could try talking to you. Cause I really thought we had something back then, and I just want to know if I messed it up when I- you know, tried to make out with you here, over the summer?”

Austin eyed him hopefully, but what he was hoping for Ian hadn’t a clue.

“And then at Halloween, it seemed like you were with that guy, but I just - I need to know if I ever had, like, a chance?”

This was an opportunity to be honest and kind at the same time, Ian knew. He just had to be brave enough to tell the truth, even if it would hurt Austin’s ego a little. It was the kinder route than sparing him, in the long run, or giving him false hope. Part of Ian’s ego liked the idea that someone out there was dreaming of and thinking of him, but when he put Austin’s face on that, it became less of a fantasy and felt more like using the guy, manipulating Austin’s interest to fulfill Ian’s own emotional needs. He didn’t want to be like that anymore.

He shook his head, thinking back, “Man, when I saw you this summer, I didn’t recognize you. Before, when we were together, I was so fucked up, and because of my meds, not everything went into my long-term memory. So when you tried to kiss me, I didn’t know who you were, and it scared me, both the kiss and the not-knowing. You didn’t ‘ruin’ anything though. There was- there _is_ , kinda, someone else. You met him at Halloween.”

Austin nodded, like he’d expected this. 

“The dog-guy, right?”

Ian grinned at the memory, “Yeah, though I wouldn’t call him that to his face. Mickey’s a little touchy when he thinks he looks silly.”

“He looked hot, his ass in those pants…” Ian eyed him sharply, but Austin just had a contemplative look on his face, “You love him?”

“I think so. It’s a little complicated right now, not sure he wants to be loved.”

 _This was hard to admit, let alone say out loud._ The idea that Mickey didn’t love him, or didn’t love himself enough- that hurt.

“For how long?”

“Huh?” Ian wasn’t clear on what Austin was asking.

“How long have you loved him?”

“Oh. I dunno. My whole life? Maybe since second grade, when he pissed on first base in tee ball.” The memory brought a small smile to Ian’s lips.

“Seriously? He whipped it out at tee ball? And that made you love him? You’re not making that up to- I dunno, make me feel better?”

“Yeah, he just gave no fucks whatsoever. His whole life, he’s been so cocky, it’s hot. And why would I make that up, anyway? God, _Mickey_? Of all people to fall in love with? He was in the closet for so long, even after we were sort of together. His dad caught us and- shit went down, and it was really bad. His dad wanted him to get married, and I even tried to get him to run away with me, before the wedding, can you imagine? He almost did.” 

Ian paused, remembering. 

“I didn’t really see him again after that, I tried to enlist, and he would barely talk to me, plus I was starting to have my own issues. And then to meet him again, a decade later, here, of all places. It all came back to me, like the last good time we had together, the smile on his face- I tried to tell myself he was different, god, I was different. Of course I tried, and it kind of blew up in my face. But I can’t just stop. I have tried. Like, _repeatedly_. I just love him.”

“Wow.” Austin stared at him, absorbing the speech. “I thought I was just too ugly for you.”

 _It always comes back to self-centeredness_ , Ian realized with mild distaste. _I just showed him some of my soul and he’s worried he’s not hot enough._

A car drove carefully into the lot, and Ian noted with gratitude that it was Michelle’s Subaru. This conversation _wasn’t_ going to last for the rest of his life.

“No way, Austin. I think you’re a beautiful person.” 

_Sort of._

“Look, this has nothing to do with the way you look.” 

_Truth._

“I’m just gone for him, I don’t think I’ll ever look at anyone else the same way.”

“But you said you’re not sure he loves you? Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know, actually. Probably stay single for a while.”

 _Not date_ **_you_ ** _._

“Hi, kids.” Michelle stood in the doorway, stamping her booted feet to get the snow off and smiling. 

“Hey, Michelle.” Ian gratefully hugged his sponsor, holding her for far longer than usual, just breathing and trying to get centered. She seemed to intuit his need, and just held him. It was what he had always craved from Monica: love, affection, and _consistency_. But he didn’t think of Michelle as motherly in the least; she just was herself.

“I’ll see you guys in there,” Austin self-consciously excused himself and headed into the main meeting room. 

Ian disengaged from Michelle, and stood in front of her for a moment, not sure where to start.

“Everything ok?” She opened the conversation for him, but didn’t force him to divulge. _Healthy boundaries._

“Yeah, Austin and I had a- a pretty good conversation, actually. He had some questions I was able to answer. He’s clean, too; hope it sticks.”

“Ah. Did it answer any questions for _you_?”

“Kind of. I think-”

Ian’s comment was lost as the door swung open and a bitterly cold wind swept in, along with a compact man in a knit cap and coat, holding a long leash attached to a short haired white and brown dog wearing a [ brown, quilted dog-coat ](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2584/0356/products/232232_1400x.jpg?v=1592833720). 

“Mickey?” It couldn’t be, could it? Mickey with a _pet_? He offered his palm to the dog, who gave his hand a friendly tongue-swipe and thwapped its tail on the floor. 

“Gallagher.” With a nod, Mickey shrugged off his damp coat, swapping the lead from one hand to the other in the process. “Hey Michelle.”

“Good to see you, Mickey. Who’s your friend?” Michelle looked slightly dubiously at the dog, who sat on the tile floor with a wide doggy grin and a wagging tail. 

“This is [ Tina ](https://www.petfinder.com/dog/tina-48014393/il/chicago/alive-rescue-il537/?referrer_id=b81199f5-020a-4184-a6aa-a446871c7a50). Well, that’s what the shelter people call her. I wanna change it, but I’m not sure what to-” He caught Michelle’s doubtful mien. “She’s good with people, it’s her first night with me, I didn’t want to leave her home alone yet, and I figured it’d be a light crowd tonight. We can go, though, if you want.”

“You got a dog?” Ian blurted out. He had gone down on one knee to rub at Tina’s soft ears, and she put one paw on his knee. 

Michelle was watching, thinking, considering. 

“I didn’t _get_ a dog. She’s a foster,” Mickey was explaining, like that made more sense. 

“Technically it’s not against the church’s rules.” Michelle put in, glancing at her watch. It was nearly 7:40, and the four of them were the only attendees. Plus Tina.

This meeting had the potential to be extremely awkward, Ian realized.

“Let me go check with Austin. If, and I say only, _if_ , he’s ok with it, it should be fine for tonight, Mickey. She seems very sweet.”

“Thanks. I- uh, I like ‘em sweet.” The old line, something Mickey had said to Kash back in the day, echoed in Ian’s mind. 

_Was Mickey referring to him? The dog? Both?_

Michelle left the two men in the entry-way.

Ian kept petting the dog, and she flopped onto her side to let him rub her belly.

“That’s her signature move; she sucks you in with the belly rubs,” Mickey said a little shyly.

“Oh, is that what it takes to keep your attention, Milkovich?” Ian was trying to be flirty, but he kept his eyes on the dog’s curiously light ones, rather than watching to see how his statement had been received.

“Jeeeeesus christ, Ian.” Mickey’s tone was annoyed, pissed off, even. He pulled his knit cap off and scrubbed at his flattened hair. “I’ve always known Gallagher’s were fucked up but I have never been happier to be a Milkovich.”

_The fuck?_

Ian peered up at him, at the dark hair sticking out in every direction, at the ocean-blue eyes that always saw him, even when he felt the most invisible. He saw the deep affection, and also the frustration.

“When you get over this whole ‘The only thing about me worth anything is my body or I’m not worthy of love’ bullshit, why don't you let me know and we can talk like grownups, ok?”

Ian was bewildered- hadn’t Mickey said they _couldn’t_? He stepped back, until his spine hit the wall, needing the solid support.

“But you said we- we can’t be together?” 

“Yeah, _right now_. I said we can’t do anything right now, cause of the first year, and sponsors and bullshit.”

Ian slid down the wall, sinking to the floor, and put his head in his hands.

“Hey, you ok?” Mickey’s voice was warm, concerned. Tina was nosing at him, trying to climb into his lap. He opened his arms just enough to let her: she was a little big for a lap dog, but no one had ever told her that.

“I fucking _forgot_. The only part I remember was you saying we couldn’t, and then I thought that’s why you were on the date with the other guy and-”

“Lemme get this straight. You were mad because you thought I went out with someone else, even though you thought I’d told you we couldn’t be together?”

“Yeah but- if you said we couldn’t be together ‘right now,’” Ian used his fingers to make the air quotes, “then why were you out with another guy anyway.”

Mickey had the good grace to look embarrassed at that. “I sort of had myself convinced you had too much on your plate and I was bringin you down. So maybe Gallagher’s don’t have a monopoly on insecurities, ok?”

Ian reached out a hand, and smacked Mickey’s calf through his jeans, then let his fingers catch on the material, trying to pull him down. Mickey kicked his hand off, then sat carefully. 

“We’re both insecure assholes, ok? Feelings are new, and hard.” Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand, squeezing it as he continued. “But you and me, Mick, that’s it. Whether I have to wait six more months, six more years, whatever.”

“So much pressure, man.”

Ian sighed. “I know, ” catching Mickey’s eye with a [ small smile ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/95/95/33/9595338abc53f53222686105087644f7.jpg) creeping over his features, he continued, “But you- I was about to say your ass is worth it, but what I _mean_ is that you're worth it.”

“Yeah, you too.” That was a lot, from Mickey. It wasn’t a declaration of undying love, but still: they were on the same page at last.

“Meeting’s starting!” Michelle’s voice drifted in from the main meeting space, and the two men on the floor holding hands chuckled.

They stood slowly, after Ian had gently foisted Tina from his lap, feeling the after effects of sitting on a cold, hard floor. 

“Gettin too old for this shit, man.”

 _Did Mickey mean the floor or the feelings or_ \- No. He had to stop trying to assume the worst about everything Mickey said. He grabbed Mickey’s hand again, and Mickey grabbed Tina’s leash, and the three headed into the meeting.

* * *

The small group ended up doing something new to Ian, they read the Just For Today Daily Meditation, then sat quietly in the darkened room for 10 minutes. He thought they were supposed to actually _be_ meditating, but he mostly just waited with his eyes closed, listening to Austin’s breathing, the sound of Tina gnawing on a chew toy Mickey had produced from a pocket, the rattle and clank of the church’s pipes, and the occasional rustle of the fabric of Mickey’s jeans as his thighs rubbed when he changed position. The thought of those pale thighs was having an effect on Ian, more even than when he’d sat on the floor in front of Mickey, thinking how easy it would be to reach over, unbuckle his belt and- _oh, crap_. As per his usual luck, he had a massive hard on at the worst possible time. 

He tried to think of neutral things, things that didn’t turn him on. 

_Church basements._

_Mold._

_Mice._

_Rats._

_Rats chittering in moldy church basements._

That did it. 

With regret, he told himself he’d address the situation as soon as he had the chance at home, even if it meant trying to jerk off on the toilet, _again_. He knew the more that he tried to get himself off with “healthy stimuli” the closer he’d be to re-training his arousal cycle away from the crystal and back to functionality. 

* * *

When he got home, Lip was at Karen’s, and Carl and Liam had fallen asleep in the living room in front of a movie. Ian could have been a good big brother and carried each up to their bed, tucking them in tenderly. But Ian had other plans for his suddenly empty bedroom. He headed upstairs, closed the door, and flipped the lock. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, not even Liam, but it would give him an extra half second’s warning before they walked in. 

He sat down on his bed, and urgently thumbed through his phone. There was a picture he’d kept saved on a MicroSD card for years, then put on the cloud once that became available. He’d taken the photo using his first ever cellphone, back in the day. It was the only picture he had of Mickey, and had gotten him through a lot of cold nights. When he felt at his lowest, he’d looked at this picture and felt less- not less alone, nor less sad. Less like he’d never had anything good in his life. 

It was a grainy shot of Mickey, sitting on _the couch_ , before it had become _the couch_. He had on a wife-beater, and jeans and was holding a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. 

_No wonder he’d ended up in NA_ , Ian reflected darkly.

The [ picture ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f0/3e/93/f03e938313f3296469b82b47afa677e4.jpg) had caught Mickey in the process of starting to speak, just as his lips were beginning to part, his eyes hooded. Ian couldn’t even think of what he could have been looking at; it couldn’t have been anything overtly sexual, but the look of his eyes was the same as Ian remembered him having when he’d been particularly turned on. That, combined with those pillowy lips, lips that were fucking _made_ for dick sucking, would have been enough. But he was sitting with one leg propped up, the hand holding the joint laying over the crease of one thick thigh. The way his fingers fell, Ian could imagine away the joint, and the jeans, and see Mickey stroking himself to hardness in front of him, stomach flexing with pleasure.

Ian was hard. Like, _hard_. He looked down at his own lap, just to confirm what he was feeling. He saw the long line of his cock stretching down his thigh through his pants. With a quick thought of gratitude to the universe, he stood, pulling off his pants and boxer briefs before someone walked in, something distracted him, or the planets went back out of alignment. His shirt he left on, not wanting to do anything to jinx the moment. 

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he licked a wide stripe down his palm and gripped his cock where it stood against his belly, groaning at the slide of skin. He had missed this so much. He began to stroke lightly, his free hand holding up the phone displaying the picture. 

_He thought of Mickey’s eyes, the way it had driven him nuts that the picture was too grainy to show the color of his eyes. For years he’d looked at every blue-eyed person to try to find the exact shade of his eyes, cause he couldn’t fucking remember them_ \- his dick was wilting in his hand. 

He internally shook himself, trying to bring back a fantasy or a memory or anything to replace the sadness. He went back to the moment in the church, sitting on the floor, when he’d thought about reaching for Mickey’s belt buckle. What ~~would~~ could Mickey have done? _Could he have grinned, and undone the button, unzipping just enough to let Ian mouth along the length of his dick? Maybe he’d let the pants slip down enough for Ian to get his tongue over his balls, licking and lapping at them?_ Ian’s dick was into this story too: he had resumed stroking himself, putting in the little twist under the head that he liked. He thought about sitting back on his heels in front of Mickey, of feeling the other man’s fingers threading through his hair as he slid his cock into Ian’s mouth. _Those fingers, roaming, gently caressing, would turn into hand holds once he got going_ , Ian could imagine. 

The vision of himself, taking Mickey’s dick deep, letting him fuck his mouth, hearing the noises he’d make, was working for him, his hand speeding up, squeezing. There was no holding back, no teasing or drawing out his pleasure, this was a sprint to the finish and Ian was determined to cross the line tonight. He returned to the idea of Mickey fucking his mouth, imagined the hands sliding down to the sides of his head. 

Without warning, the unforgiving landscape of his fantasy shifted, the warmth slipping into brutality. _The encouraging hands on his head slid down, becoming hurtful, bruising fingers wrapped around his throat. The church entry became an alleyway, and the laminate floor under his knees morphed into rough asphalt. Mickey’s perfect cock in his mouth became longer, and thinner, the clean taste on his tongue turning into polluted and depraved fluids filling up his mouth, choking him, drowning him-_

Ian dropped the phone onto the bed and brought both hands up to cover his mouth, coughing violently. 

**_Shit_ **.

He wasn’t hard anymore. No doubt that little scene had happened: the sensory details were too specific for it to be anything but a memory. _Had he blown a guy in an alley for cash during his using days?_ He knew he had, and certainly more than once. Angrily, he kicked his discarded clothes under the bed, and pulled on loose sweatpants, unlocking the door and stalking into the bathroom to wash his hands.

_Goddamn it!_

When would his body and his brain get on the same page- he wasn’t doing that shit anymore, not the using, not selling himself, none of it. It had been more than six months, and he was still just as fucked up, broken as ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "One is too many, a thousand never enough." Common NA saying about using, but applies to any substance, really. The idea that we can't have JUST one, and once we do, there is no limit to how much we want, that our need or desire is insatiable.  
> 2\. In an 8th step, you plan your amends, particularly how too make them WITHOUT causing greater harm. The 9th step is making those amends, directly or indirectly. For instance, if a person cheated and took money from social services for which they were not entitled, they could make direct amends by sending a check, or indirect, by making donations or otherwise making concrete contributions to society. Austin's approaching Ian here is not an 8th/9th step move, more of a way of easing his obsession.  
> 3\. Just for Today Daily Meditation is a book put out by NA World services. Every day has its own brief quote from another piece of literature, a reflection on that quote, and a short prayer or focusing thought.


	21. IP #19 Self Acceptance (Ian) (Christmas Eve- Dec 24th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the words of my beta “When is somebody going to tell this poor boy that he has PTSD!?” And it’s Christmas Eve.  
> Chapter Soundtrack: Ends of the Earth: Lord Huron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the chapter count has ticked up slightly; originally Christmas Eve and New Year’s were one giant chapter(21), but they’ve been split (21/22).  
> If I missed any explanations or if you catch an error, do leave a comment!  
> \-----  
> IP #19 Self Acceptance  
> “The lack of self-acceptance is a problem for many recovering addicts. This subtle defect is difficult to identify and often goes unrecognized. Many of us believed that using drugs was our only problem, denying the fact that our lives had become unmanageable. Even after we stop using, this denial can continue to plague us. Many of the problems we experience in ongoing recovery stem from an inability to accept ourselves on a deep level. We may not even realize that this discomfort is the source of our problem, because it is often manifested in other ways. We may find ourselves becoming irritable or judgmental, discontent, depressed, or confused. We may find ourselves trying to change environmental factors in an attempt to satisfy the inner gnawing we feel. In situations such as these our experience has shown that it is best to look inward for the source of our discontent. Very often, we discover that we are harsh critics of ourselves, wallowing in self-loathing and self-rejection.”

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and Ian was spending it downtown at appointments. Mickey had said he’d stop by that evening, and Ian had a plan. In order to get in to see his doctors before the holiday, he’d had to see both his prescriber and therapist that afternoon. After a quick trip to the store, he was even a few minutes early to his first session. His mood had been better, not as low, so his doctor had been happy to keep him on the current dose, and see him back in two weeks. ‘I don’t want to see you until next year!’ were her trite, joking last words as he faked a smile and hit the button for the up elevator. Repeatedly. 

\---

In Ed’s office, Ian flopped into the wing-back chair and gave a sigh of relief. When Ed opened his notebook and clicked his pen, signaling the official beginning of their session, Ian held up a hand for silence. Ed gazed at him, calm, and perhaps a little inscrutable.

“I need to talk about my dick.”

“Ok, Ian. How is your penis today?”

Ian eyed him warily, noticing that unlike usual, Ed wasn’t mimicking Ian’s own language, before answering glibly. “Well, it still doesn’t work, so there’s that.”

“I’m to infer that you mean during intentionally sexual activity? Or are you having urinary issues as well?”

“Dude, no! I can ~~pis~~ \- pee fine. And I’m still having the wet dreams, so this isn’t some medical issue. It’s fucking mental.”

“Understood.” Ed nodded, and scribbled a note. “Why is this coming up now?”

“I mean, it hasn’t gone away- it’s been an issue the whole time we’ve been talking.”

“Yes, but you don’t bring it up every session. Is there a sexual situation you anticipate being in?”

A light flush suffused Ian’s face. 

“Not- not right now, no. But isn’t jerking off a sexual situation?”

“Yes, you’re quite right. So the issue arose during self-stimulation?”

“Yeah- I got hard, that was good, right?”

“You were able to successfully establish an erection of your own volition? That is progress. What happened after that?”

“I had a picture to look at, and I had a whole fantasy going in my mind, like a healthy one. A clean one.”

Ian looked up, to see if Ed understood what he meant by _clean_ . The man had the world’s best poker face, showing neither empathy, understanding, nor confusion. _Best to clarify._

“Like, not just drug free, but also not - whadya call it, not emotionally coercive.” He was using Ed’s own terminology against him, mocking a little, but Ed just nodded, slowly, encouraging Ian to continue.

“Anyway, so I was into it, right? Like I was in the moment, my dick was hard, but then the thing in my head changed and I was remembering something- something bad that happened. I’m pretty sure it happened, at least.”

“Yes, that would be consistent with PTSD.” Ed’s voice was quiet and calm, but the bombshell he’d dropped rocked Ian’s internal landscape.

“PTSD? Wait, another diagnosis?”

“Fortunately or not, yes.”

“How the _fuck_ is another diagnosis a fortunate situation?” Ian could hear his pitch rising, could feel his anxiety pulsing at his temples.

“When we name a thing, we take away part of its power. When we name it, we can address it, treat it, get help.”

Ian shook his head stubbornly. “No new meds. I can’t take anything narcotic and I don’t want to take more pills than I have to.”

“No, I agree. Medication isn’t indicated at this point, though if your symptoms become more disruptive or upsetting we can revisit the issue.”

“So what do I do? Just add another reason for people to avoid me? ‘Hi, I’m Ian, gay, bipolar with psychotic features, an addict, and oh, yeah, now I also have PTSD?’”

“Do people avoid you currently because of those reasons?”

He did a quick rundown in his head. His family didn’t avoid him; in fact, they were a little over concerned with his well-being. Michelle certainly didn’t avoid him, and neither did Mickey. The other people in the meetings had shared about far worse situations, being abused as children, even abusing children, and no one told them they had to leave or stopped hugging them. Ed and his doctors didn’t seem phased by his issues. Maybe the only one freaked out was _him_.

“No?”

“No, I would imagine not.”

“But I’m fucked up! Like, _more_ fucked up, even.”

“Ian. Did you have a say about any of the issues you listed? Being gay, having bipolar, substance use disorder, or PTSD?”

Ian screwed up his face, clenching his jaw, ready to argue. “I _definitely_ had a say over whether I turned into an addict.”

Ed pulled a face of his own, scrunching his eyes down, “Did you though?”

In frustration, Ian threw up his hands. “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

“What I am saying is that substance use disorders aren’t the product of poor choices. Or they aren’t _just_ the product of poor choices. The current theories suggest a bio-psycho-social model, where a weakness in any of the three areas: biology, psychology, or social connections, can predict the likelihood of developing a substance use disorder with a high degree of accuracy.”

“I didn’t pick up meth because of my mental illness!” Ian’s hands were clutching the arms of the chair, nails digging into the shiny leather. 

“Of course not. I mean that because of the complicating factors in your life, lack of healthy social interactions, lack of support for your mental health, and some type of biological disposition, once you took the first hit of anything, you were on a path. If it hadn’t been meth, it could have been alcohol, pills, shopping, sex, or even gambling. And those same protective factors, or lack of them, predispose you to suffering from PTSD as a result of trauma. So if you had pretensions of taking on a sense of power in developing an addiction, telling yourself that you deserved it because of some choice you made, or that you were weak, I am sorry to tell you that just isn’t so.”

Ed sucked in a deep breath, clearly feeling he’d gone slightly overboard.

Ian deliberately released his nails from the furniture, sitting back and closing his eyes to process.

It took a few long moments before he had formulated his response. “But what do I _do_ about it all?” His eyes were still closed, but he could imagine Ed’s small smile of approval nonetheless.

“Wrong question, Ian.”

At that, he did open his eyes, waiting and watching Ed.

“What’s the right question?”

“‘What do _we_ do about it?’ You’re not alone anymore, no matter how often your brain tries to tell you that old lie. You have friends, a sponsor, your family, and me. Plenty of people who care about you. You’re going to get through this.”

“But when?”

“That I cannot say. Though I would wager a guess that your success at getting an erection is a real sign of progress on that front, no matter how frustrating the outcome was.”

“Didn’t feel like progress, felt like fucking blue balls.”

Ed snorted out a laugh, finally. The rest of the session they kept it light, focused on Ian’s holiday schemes and plans.

* * *

By the time he got back to the house, Ian felt like he was dragging his feet, the cold and dark had him tired out, plus the emotional session with Ed had drained him. But he only had a few hours before Mickey was stopping by with Tina, ostensibly to drop off Christmas cookies Mandy had made (with Mickey’s recipe, guidance, direction, and labor), but really so Ian could give him a gift. He knew well that Mickey’s home-life growing up had been even less caring than his own, and even without Terry around, Christmas wasn’t being celebrated in that house.

He had wanted to give Mickey something big, something that would show his commitment, his affection, his caring for the man. But of course, with no income and no resources, he’d had to get creative, brainstorming with Michelle about how to convey his message without making Mickey feel pressured, or obligated- he’d gone into a whole spiral of self-doubt before Michelle had reined him in, reminding him that a gift was just a gift, not a coded message.

Since he’d been home so much, Ian had taken the time to stay on top of the cleaning at the house, and he had managed to find the world’s smallest tree ( _ok, he asked Lip for $5 and bought it out of a parking lot, but still_ ) and decorated it with ancient tin foil garlands from the hall closet, a few cracked ornaments, and a string of popcorn. The popcorn thing had been Liam’s idea, having seen it in a few films. The popcorn admirably filled in the many gaps in traditional decorations on the tree.

Around 9, Ian had just finished wrapping the small box when he heard a sharp rap on the front door. He leaped up to unlock the deadbolt, and ushered Mickey in.

Tina was with Mickey, once again dressed against the cold, but this time she wore a [ hideous holiday sweater, with white fringe ](https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-pit-bull-dog-wearing-ugly-christmas-sweater-140305349.html) around her neck. At least it looked _warm_ , Ian figured, if not even marginally cute. After handing him the tray of cookies, Mickey caught him assessing the dog’s sweater while he was pulling off his finger-less gloves. “Yeah, the rescue sent that. They want us to take some pictures to put on their site. It’s ugly as shit though, right?” He unclipped the leash, though Tina stayed standing by his side. 

Ian smirked, “I wasn’t gonna say that. She’s still cute, even if the sweater isn’t.”

Liam came rushing down the stairs, and stopped at the landing, staring at Tina. Frozen. 

Both of the men had turned towards the quick footfalls on the steps. Mickey found words first, “She’s nice, Lee, I swear. She’s not mean at all, but we can go-”

Ian cut him off, trying to reassure Liam, “-He’s not afraid of a dog. Right, Liam?”

Liam carefully eased down the remainder of the steps, all momentum gone, his eyes locked on Tina.

Mickey glanced at Ian, obviously trying to gauge what the right move was.

“Can I- can I pet her?” Liam’s voice was low, but the longing was evident.

“Of course, she’s a total mush-ball,” Mickey assured him, at the same time as Ian was nodding vigorously. Liam sat on the edge of the couch cushion and delicately laid his hand on Tina’s broad forehead, stroking down to her neck. She leaned into his leg with her whole body, panting lightly. 

“Hey Mick, I have something to gi- show you in the van outside. Come with? Liam and Tina will be fine in here.” He hoped he’d covered his misspeaking quickly enough that Mickey hadn’t been alerted. 

Mickey looked suddenly grim, serious.

“You plannin to murder me out there?”

Ian was aghast, and immediately opened his mouth to try and defend or assure or-

A grin broke across Mickey’s face, “Just kidding, relax. Lead on.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ian pulled on a sweatshirt and led him through the kitchen and out the backdoor, letting him stop and glance back to check on Tina as they exited the house: she was on her back at Liam’s feet, wagging her tail as Liam smiled happily.

“Not sure he’s gonna let you take her home tonight.”

“He will after he sees how much she craps every day. And how much paperwork the rescue wants potential adopters to fill out.”

\---

Ian slid open the rusty van door, and magnanimously gestured to let Mickey enter first. _Not_ because he wanted to peek at his ass as he did it. They sat side by side, and Ian pulled the door shut with a creak. With the short days and lack of interior lighting, it was terribly dim inside the van, as well as cold. The two were seated side by side, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, facing towards the front windshield. Ian deftly pulled the small wrapped box out from his pocket and set it carefully on Mickey’s knee.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “What’s this shit, Gallagher?”

“A present.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean why are you giving me a present?”

Ian ducked his head, not meeting Mickey’s gaze, speaking softly, “Cause it’s Christmas and I like you?”

“Eh, you’re gonna laugh, but…” Mickey reached deep into one of his parka’s many pockets and pulled out a plastic grocery sack wrapped a few times around _something_ and set it gently in Ian’s lap.

“What the fuck is this, Milkovich?” Ian teased.

“Guess I like you too. Bitch.” Mickey admitted. “Now open that shit before I take it back.”

Ian unrolled the plastic grocery sack. Inside was a white tee shirt. He glanced with mild confusion at Mickey, who waved him on. “Just look at it, jeez.”

He held the tee shirt up. The front was blank with just a pocket on the chest. He flipped it over, and let out a huge laugh. The shirt had black text printed on the back, ‘ **Not your fucking twink** ’.

Mickey had been watching his face anxiously, but when Ian laughed, Mickey relaxed, [ grinning broadly ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/bfcc032fd8bb52255b23a47468aee4dc/680aa1a3a830c1aa-c1/s640x960/03391fdf3df8c9c3b2c440ab0b787e43284f7987.gif). 

“Where’d you find this? It’s perfect!”

“I had the guy at the screen-printing shop make it, it was nothing, really.”

“Bullshit, Mick. This is awesome- I’ll wear it to the New Year’s speaker jam next week.”

“Can’t wait to see how that goes over,” Mickey agreed, quiet pleasure in his voice.

“So you’re going?” It took all Ian had not to ask Mickey to go _with him_ , but he was trying to respect the weird boundary they’d been upholding. 

Mickey elbowed him in the ribs, “Stupid ass. I’m goin and you’re comin with me. I wanna see everyone’s face when they read the shirt.”

Ian flushed with happiness, even in the cold air. “Now open yours.”

Mickey bit the corner off the wrapping paper and [ spit it on the floor ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b860c3903936481b24e642b946efe9fd/tumblr_mhqt5kDR1g1rco4h9o1_250.gifv) of the van, meeting Ian’s eyes with a cocky grin, like he’d just done something smart. Ian’s heart felt hot in his chest, at how Mickey did the simplest things, things that would make anyone else seem uncouth, but when Mickey did it, he was just _charmed_.

Mickey made quick work of the rest of Ian’s careful wrapping job, getting down to the small box in moments. He shook it once, next to his head, hearing the small item rattle in the tissue paper, making a face, clearly still unsure what the gift was. He lifted the lid, and pushed aside the paper with one tentative finger.

Inside sat a [ silver chain ](https://33.media.tumblr.com/5b42be582be90bcf1c62d0d9c3514602/tumblr_n9youjrFAC1r9ovhio3_250.gif) , on which hung a tiny, silver [ NA symbol pendant ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/238794063/narcotics-anonymous-style-336-9-sterling?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=na+symbol+pendant&ref=sr_gallery-1-1&organic_search_click=1). Mickey held the chain up in the dim shadows of the van, silent. 

“Do you- is it ok? Do you like it?” Ian was anxiously scanning his face to see his reaction.

Mickey pulled down the zip of his coat and spun, turning his back to Ian, handing him the chain. “Put in on me,” he rasped out.

Ian dutifully laid the pendant over Mickey’s throat, then threaded the chain behind his neck, fastening the clasp. The symbol lay further down on Mickey’s chest than he’d expected, the silver catching a stray beam from a street light. Mickey turned back to face him, expression solemn as he studied Ian’s face before putting one palm on each side of Ian’s cheeks. 

_It felt like maybe Mickey was about to kiss him?_

_Was that a thing? Was that what they did now? Were they ~~allow~~ \- _

“This is the nicest fucking present anyone ever gave me, Gallagher.” Mickey stared into his eyes, still utterly serious. “Thank you.” He dropped his hands down, and looked out the window, before lighting a cigarette and taking a deep inhalation. Then he held it to Ian’s lips, in a gesture straight out of the old days. 

_Not a kiss, but something shared._

They sat like that for a few minutes, passing back and forth the cigarette, just taking in the silence, and the warmth between them. When the cold got too bitter, by unspoken agreement, they headed back inside. Tina was leaping around, snapping bites of popcorn off the tree as Liam and Debbie looked on in hysterical laughter. Carl was filming the antics on his cell phone. The cookies had all been eaten, with just a few crumbs left on the plate. 

_Sorry, Santa._

* * *

Mickey and Ian stood at the yard gate, a little uncomfortable, trying to navigate the farewell. Tina was snuffling quietly nearby, investigating an old, frozen puddle. A lone snowflake drifted down and landed in Mickey’s dark hair; Ian’s hand came up in an abortive gesture, longing to touch, but he restrained himself to speech, “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, I dunno bout that. AJ planned some mini road trip meeting journey when I told him my family didn’t, ya know, _do_ Christmas. Not sure where we’ll end up, really.”

“Oh, ok.” _Not ok. Not ok at all._

A few more flakes were dancing down in the darkness, and Ian could feel the cold burn as one landed on his own cheek. Mickey’s eyes traced its path from the sky, then with a tentative finger, he reached up and brushed it away. A new type of burning seared him, but Ian hoped it wasn’t visible. 

“I have PTSD,” Ian blurted out.

Mickey [ raised his eyebrows ](https://data.whicdn.com/images/304813932/original.gif) nearly to his hairline, but didn’t reply, just stared. 

The quiet was making Ian itchy and fearful and- “Can you- can you just say something?”

“PTSD, eh?”

“Yeah, I know- it’s like, one more thing, but I’ve been talking about it, and it sort of explains a few things that have been goin-”

“Nightmares and shit, right?” Mickey thumbed his lip, then bit the full flesh of his mouth.

“Uh, yeah, nightmares, and some anxiety. Plus more.” He was not going to delineate exactly how it was affecting his sex life.

Mickey was staring at the slush, still gnawing desperately at his lip. 

“Sorry.” Ian wasn’t even sure why Mickey was apologizing to him. A snowflake landed on Ian’s eyelash, and he rubbed it away with a fist.

_If one more person said they were sorry for him, Ian thought he might genuinely scream_. But Mickey wasn’t done.

“Sorry I wasn’t there to- to protect you. If I’d a gone with you, when you asked me to, we wouldn’t be in all this shit.”

“This isn’t your fault, Mick!” Ian protested. “We were so young, I think even if you had said yes, or if I’d stuck around, it still would have been fucked up.”

“Maybe so. But you ain’t alone anymore, ok?” Mickey’s voice was fierce, and he caught Ian’s eye and held it with the intensity of his gaze. “Whatever you need, you need to talk, you need to yell, you need to cry, whatever. I’m just a few blocks over, ok? Like- any time. You have a nightmare- you call me. Panic attack? Just shoot me a text. Or, I dunno, stop by. I got nothing more important goin on.”

“Yeah?” Ian couldn’t really believe what he was hearing, even though Ed and he had discussed that no one was likely to push him away because of the new diagnosis, having this reaction, support and affection and just- 

Mickey hugged him then, just reached out, interrupting his mental spiral and bear-grabbed him, their jackets mashing together, all hoods and sleeves and zippers. “I’m so glad you survived, man,” he choked out in a rough voice.

That harsh whisper did things to Ian, to his heart. Like it was shattering and also being super-glued back together, but stronger. 

It was too cold to stay like that, so eventually Mickey rubbed his face on Ian’s shoulder then pulled back.

His eyes were suspiciously bright. _What had he been wiping away?_

Mickey had changed so much from the angry punk Ian used to know- he didn’t just have feelings now, he _showed_ his feelings. Ian knew Mickey had always felt things, even if he hadn’t admitted it without duress. The dirty, terrorizing, angry man had been attractive to Ian despite the emotional constipation. But this new version of Mickey, where he could use his words, where he could show joy and shed tears- he was infinitely appealing to Ian, attractive in ways he hadn’t known he wanted. The urge to touch him was overpowering...

Ian reached out, fisting the front of Mickey’s jacket, possessively loving the feel of _his_ chain under it, drawing him back in, and [kissed](https://66.media.tumblr.com/d37407d912e60b20d6072bc736655be9/tumblr_p1vfvmz7f01w0v7w2o4_250.gifv) his temple, so softly, before pushing him away. More flakes swirled around them as the snow began to fall in earnest.

“Merry Christmas, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, I know that Lord Huron song was used in the show but I just love it so much.  
> 2\. There are meetings 365 days a year, but for the purpose of the story, let's assume Ian and Mickey went to morning or midday meetings on Christmas Eve.  
> 3\. Ed uses formal language during Ian's session in order to help Ian get some distance from his feelings: it is a deliberate choice.  
> 4\. I totally got on my soapbox with the bio-psycho-social model of addiction. It's a real thing.  
> 5\. Another cliche is that the opposite of addiction isn't being clean, or even recovery, it's connection.  
> 6\. Meeting road-trips are like regular road trips, except every destination is a out-of-town meeting. They can last hours, days, or even weeks.  
> 7\. New Year's Eve is a huge trigger for many people in recovery. Most 12-step fellowships hold some type of activity for the whole afternoon/evening. In this case, a speaker jam is like a marathon meeting, lasting hours, with food.  
> 8\. All my gratitude to EmpressRegnant for Ian's gift to Mickey cause I was stumped on that one!


	22. IP #14 One Addict’s Experience (Mickey) (Dec 24- January 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey reflects on his gift, and then attends the New Year's Eve Speaker Jam.  
> \---  
> Chapter Soundtrack: [ How will I rest in peace if I'm buried by a highway?\- KennyHoopla](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm_PPNbgMjg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta says this is her fave chapter yet, I hope you love it as much as we do! It's also a beast- over 5000 words. Sorry, not sorry.  
> If you find an error, please let me know.  
> Leave a comment to make me write faster (not necessary, but nice to get.)  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> IP #14 One Addict’s Experience  
> “Obsession forced me to use drugs repeatedly, against my will, knowing that it was self-destructive, and against my basic instinct for survival. Insane, and feeling hopelessly helpless, I gave up fighting, and accepted that I was an addict—that my life was totally unmanageable, and that I was powerless over the disease.…
> 
> If I don’t change, I will be miserable and return to using drugs. The actions suggested by the NA program can change my personality and character. I honestly examine myself, writing down what I have done and how I have felt. I reveal myself completely to my God and to another human being, telling all of my most secret fears, angers, and resentments. By doing these things, the past no longer has control over my life, and I am freed to live up to my ideals today. I begin to behave differently and become ready to be changed by my God into the sort of person He wants me to be. I have begun to develop a reasonable self-image, based in reality, by asking to be relieved of my shortcomings. By amending the wrongs I have done to other people, I have learned how to forgive myself and others.”

**_(Dec 24th )_ **

Mickey walked home in the falling snow, slightly dazed by the evening’s events. He could feel the chain around his neck, cool metal shifting against his skin with every step. Peering up, he could see the stars, for once, through the snowflakes, glittering far away. 

_If there is a Higher Power, this must be how it feels. Fierce, awed, and kind._

Tina pulled on the leash as they approached the house, ready to go inside and get warm but Mickey wasn’t ready to be around his siblings quite yet. Lighting a cigarette, he could still feel Ian’s lips on the side of his head, the pressure, and the heat it had ignited in his gut. Growing up Mickey had learned from his older brothers to protect the side of the head, the temple, because the wrong hit in the wrong spot and you were done. _Dead_. He’d taught Mandy the same, to protect her head at all costs during Terry’s beatings. Ian had just shown him such tenderness in a place that Mickey had spent his whole life protecting against abuse, Mickey had to think about that one for a while. He’d turn it over in his brain tonight, in bed, looking at it from every angle. 

But that open, befreckled, sincere face kept swimming up in his mind: the pain he’d displayed when he told Mickey about the PTSD. Mickey could read between the lines, there was still more to that situation. But there didn’t feel like a terminal rush anymore, like they both had to tell and do _everything_ because it could be snatched away in a moment. Which was dumb. Shit happened all the time; what they had, this tenuous thing, could be easily destroyed. His stupidity with going on the date with Keats could have done it, Gallagher’s anger and insecurities. 

With a small, rueful laugh, Mickey shook his head. _What a pair of headcases we are._

He finished the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, and feeling the chain move on his neck once again. Mickey felt like he had something real, tying him to Ian then. Like even if it all _did_ go to shit, he'll have something to touch and hold when he thought of him, not a picture, or a memory, but something he could hold in his hand to prove it had been real. 

* * *

Inside the house, Mandy was on the couch, leg propped, a plate of takeout on the table in front of her as she watched a tv program. Mickey undid the leash and Tina hopped right onto the couch and curled up to Mandy’s leg.

“She’s gonna get spoiled if you let her do that shit.” Mandy had a lot to say for someone who wasn’t telling Tina to get off the couch, and was actually stroking over her flank with a careless hand.

Mickey rolled his eyes, “I think she could use a little spoilin’. She’s still skinny as fuck, even if she is eatin everything in sight and gaining.”

“Mail for you, it’s on the table.” As Mickey peeled out of his parka and kicked his boots off on his way to the kitchen counter where all the mail ended up, Mandy surreptitiously slipped Tina the remains of a slice of pizza. The dog wolfed the crust down and stared at Mandy, big puppy eyes hoping for more. 

Mickey found the thin envelope and ripped it open, scanning the page. 

“Well, shit.” His voice came out steadier than he felt, but Mandy still looked at him suspiciously. 

“Goin’ to jail? What’d you do this time?”

“Jeeesus, Mandy. I’m not going to jail, thanks for the support. I got into this program, it’s some school thing my counselor had me sign up for. Only did it cause I was sure they wouldn’t take me but…”

“But now they did, and you have to put up or shut up.” Mandy was watching him fixedly over the back of the couch, bright eyes matching his own.

“The fuck you starin at?”

“Nice jewelry. Your boyfriend - oh, I'm sorry, your _sponsor_ \- buy you that?”

With a start, Mickey realized the chain and pendant were hanging outside his shirt. He tucked them back in and blustered at her, “Fuck you’s who bought me this. Can’t a guy try and look decent around here?”

“A _guy_ could, sure. But you? Your idea of dressing nice is a shirt that still has all the buttons and jeans that ain't indecent.”

“Just trying not to show you up, cause we both know that if I wanted to, I’d be prettier than you any day a’ the week.”

Mandy made a dismissive noise, then focused on the letter he still held in one hand, like it might turn into smoke if he put it down. “What program did you get into?”

“It’s a school thing. If I were to do it, which I _ain’t_ , I’d have to go to classes and study and shit, which you know I _don’t_ do, and then after a few years, I’d get a degree.”

“You coulda just said GED. I know what a GED is, asshole.” 

He opened the fridge and pushed past the bottles of cheap beer to find the liter of cola in the back, pulling it out as he spoke, “Yeah, but I’m not doin it, so it don’t matter what I say, does it?”

“Why not?”

“ _Why no_ \- fuck, Mandy, you may not have noticed cause you were so busy sucking dick back then, but I never got past 9th grade. This is 12th grade equivalency shit. I’d have to study three years worth of bullshit and then take a test, with no guarantee at the end that I’d even pass.” He pulled a tumbler out of the cupboard and poured this soda in, watching it fizz.

“Mickey. I will never repeat this, and if you try telling anyone I said it, I will deny it, but you aren’t the stupidest Milkovich. You should at least try the class. Shit could be really different now, _you’re_ really different now. And not just ‘cause you wear jewelry.” She snickered at her own joke, and Mickey kept his face flat, because if he let her know he thought she was funny, she really would know he was the stupidest Milkovich. Or at least the softest. 

“So what, I go to this class with my little notebook and pencil and sit and - listen? Take notes?”

“Yup, that is how school works, usually. Even if you’re there mostly doodling in your notebook, at least you showed up.”

He cracked a smile at that image, himself in a classroom, crammed into a small desk, just pettin a notebook.

“What was your plan, anyway?”

“Plan?” He took a sip of soda, stalling. He had an idea of what she meant.

“You were just gonna be Dad’s bitch forever? I don’t think so. I think you had- if not a plan, then a thought. Something else you wanted in life.”

The easy answer came first, “Didn’t think I’d live this long, honestly.”

But as he thought, old dreams filtered back into his memory, his expression far away. “I always liked drawin'. Never thought I’d be an artist or anything like that shit, but when I was little, I thought maybe if I was a house painter, they’d let me draw whatever I wanted on the walls first, so long as I painted over it.” He rubbed his face, surprised he was sharing so much with her. They’d been siblings, once. Sheltered each other, commiserated. But with adolescence, they’d drifted apart, and then he made his choices and she made hers. Their lives had barely intersected for a decade, despite living in the same house. But that seemed to be changing, and he couldn’t say he hated it. 

Her voice brought him back from the reverie, “Artists make big money.”

“Yeah, the good ones do. You know how many bad artists there are out there? Starving artist isn’t just a cliche, it’s the real world.”

“But what if you’re like- actually good?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think that’s my dream anymore. The kid who dreamed that also thought he liked girls and that Dad was a good role model.”

Mandy grimaced. “That fucker.”

Mickey lifted his soda and gave her a toast. “Well said.”

“Dad’s ruined a lot of shit in his life, Mickey. Don’t let him keep ruining yours.”

He thought about that, about all the things Terry had taken, broken, tainted. About how he had a choice, to let things in his life stay broken, to let himself stay broken, and almost without thought he had chosen to fix things. To fix himself, recover. He could never explain what made him buy in, those few months back. Whether it was Gallagher’s fortuitous arrival, sheer perverse obstinacy, a flicker of hope. But whatever it had been, his life was different. Better. He was better. Not like- fixed, or _cured_. But he wasn’t his father’s son anymore. 

He flopped down on the couch with Tina between him and Mandy.

“Any pizza left?” Easier to say than thanks, but she knew what he meant, he hoped.

“Nah, fed it all to the dog,” his sister quipped, before handing him a cold slice from the box on the wobbly table in front of them. _She knew_.

* * *

**_(Dec 31st)_ **

AJ was a little late picking him up, and Mickey had been anxiously circling the house, checking his phone, looking out the window for the SUV, and opening his closet door to look for a better outfit. Logically, he knew that a New Year’s Speaker Jam was no cause to dress fancy, but at the same time he had the irrational urge to look _different_ , somehow.

****

Finally, AJ’s SUV pulled up, and Mickey headed out, admonishing Tina, “Be good and don’t bite Mandy too hard if she tries to paint your nails.” Mandy shook the nail polish bottle playfully in his direction from her spot on the couch, giving him the finger as he departed, which he naturally returned.

****

As soon as he sat down, AJ gave him a meaningful stare.

Mickey responded to the stare with his usual line, “You know these things do more harm than good in a crash, right?” He pointed to the seat belt.

“You know I won’t drive you anywhere if you don’t wear it, right?” AJ mimicked his tone so accurately that Mickey had to crack a grin, though he turned to face the window as he buckled it so AJ wouldn’t see what a sap he had for a sponsee. 

“Whatever, man.”

****

“So I need to talk to you about something very serious before we get to the church.”

_Ah, fuck._

****

Mickey didn’t turn to face AJ, but his body stiffened, ready for something bad.

“Mickey? Hey, Mickey, that was just a joke.” AJ’s worried tone had him turning to face the guy, ready to defend to his death that he hadn’t been worried, but the look of honest concern and caring silenced his protests on the tip of his tongue. He went for a more neutral option, “S’fine man. What’s up?”

****

“So we’re gonna pretend like you didn’t just shit your pants, emotionally?”

“Good strategy.”

****

“OK, well, the thing is there’s a camping trip.”

“In January?” Mickey thought he understood enough about the concept of camping to know camping in the winter was dumb and bad and how people got eaten. 

****

“Nah, it’s in May, Memorial Day Weekend. The whole area does it, every year. We get a campsite for forty at [ Thomas Woods ](https://thedyrt.com/camping/illinois/thomas-woods-in-marengo-ridge-conservation-area), in Marengo, and everyone brings a tent. We do a fireside meeting after dinner, we look at the stars, have a breakfast meeting, we hike, it’s cool.”

“Not sure that’s my scene, and I ain’t got a tent.”

****

“The thing is, Tina’s getting a really limited view of life in the Southside. Just think what it would mean to her, a city dog for her whole sad life, to go run in the woods, and play frisbee, and swim! Think of Tina, Mickey, this will make her so happy! Don't be selfish”

“You’re tryin to manipulate me by using Tina. Ain’t gonna work. Besides, what if she gets adopted by May?”

****

AJ gave him a side eye, “It’s only manipulation if you don’t know I’m doing it. Anyway, aren’t you filling out the adoption paperwork?”

“Dude, I just asked you to print it out for me to look at, I didn’t say anything about filling it out!”

“So the camping trip.”

“So I’ll think about it.”

_I’ll think about it and then say ‘no’ again later when I’m not trapped in the car with you._

****

“Great! I signed you up already.”

“You- what?”

“Yup, I have a spare tent. It’s only a one-person, but with Tina you should stay plenty warm enough. Done deal.”

****

“I don’t get any say in this? What if I go back out and relapse before May?”

“You plannin’ to go out and use drugs anytime soon?”

“I don’t have a plan to, no, but-”

_But who knew what could happen in five months?_

“-Fine. Good, it’s a plan then.”

****

It was the furthest thing from a plan, but Mickey was starting to see he’d never had a choice on the issue. He’d be bullied and cajoled until he acquiesced: he was (probably) going camping. He might be adopting a dog. And he could even stay clean. _At least until Memorial Day._

****

Soon enough, they had arrived at the church and paid the ‘suggested donation’ before being directed down two sets of stairs into a huge church basement event space. It felt like Mickey was back in middle school, in an auditorium, complete with stage up front and row upon row of those damn folding chairs that hurt his back. 

****

The first eight rows were pretty full, and plenty of people were gathered at the periphery of the room, either eating, talking, or just lurking. After handing his coat off, Mickey turned to AJ, hoping for a little guidance on the protocol of the event.

“How’s this shit work, then?”

AJ was happy to oblige, “Well, unlike a regular meeting, we don’t sit in a circle, and there aren’t any readings. The Activities Committee selected the speakers, so they’ll start pretty soon, talk for a while, then we take a break after each one or so, grab food or a smoke, rinse and repeat until midnight.”

“Sounds-” he was about to say _‘gay’_ and before it came out, before he said the wrong thing, he stopped himself, changed gears, “fine.”

****

AJ looked at him speculatively, then pointed into the third row. “Your personal Care Bear’s here.”

Mickey knew who he meant, and was powerless to stop his gaze from following AJ’s finger. Gallagher was sitting with an open seat on either side of him, staring down into his phone.

“Looks like he saved you a seat. Go on. Have fun!”

Mickey nodded once at AJ, trying to convey thanks, gratitude for not making a big deal out of shit, and made his way down the aisle between the chairs until he was at the third row. He was standing, awkwardly, waiting for Gallagher to notice him, when the Emcee began the event.

****

“Hello [ Chicagoland ](https://www.chicagona.org/)! Welcome to the 34th annual New Year’s Eve Dinosaur Speaker Jam. Can we have a moment of silence, followed by the serenity prayer to start the night?”

Not wanting to stand and wait any longer, Mickey slid into the open seat, startling Ian. They were silent during the serenity prayer, both mouthing along and sharing a goofy smile that felt warm to Mickey in ways he couldn’t quite put into words.

****

“Every speaker tonight is a bona fide” the Emcee pronounced it ‘bone-uh-fie-dee’, “dinosaur, which for you newcomers means they have 25 or more years of continuous clean time. Our first speaker has 43 years clean, let me introduce Bo T., here to speak on humility!”

The Emcee continued his patter, but Mickey only had eyes and ears for one person. Ian’s eyes were pinned to the thin silver chain that circled his neck, and Mickey wondered how it made Ian feel to see him wear it, then he shook himself, and nudged Gallagher in the shoulder.

“Good to see you, man.”

“You too, Mick. Looks real good.”

“Yeah?” Mickey patted his chest where the pendent lay. “Some guy gave it to me, givin me jewelry. You jealous?”

Ian just snorted out a laugh. 

The speaker on stage had finally gotten settled, and the two tried to listen attentively, while overly aware of the other at his side. 

* * *

“I think this is gonna be the last one tonight, folks, cause we’re getting close to midnight!”

Scattered cheers echoed through the crowd, whether at the time, the message, or the speaker was unclear.

“So give a warm welcome to our final dinosaur, Eileen R.!” 

Broad, loud applause crashed, as if this was the first speaker, and not the twelfth. When Eileen R. launched into a drug-a-log of her time, starting with 1974, Mickey gave a disgruntled sigh. Sitting for so long in shitty folding chairs sucked and he just couldn’t focus on another speaker. His eyes felt heavy: when was the last time he’d been up this late? 

_Who was he turning into?_

It was also hard for him to relate to some of the speakers, and this lady, with her crystals and hippy-attitude was rubbing him the wrong way. 

He stood, and began to move out of the aisle when Ian hissed a question to him, “Where you goin?” 

Amused by Ian’s need to know where he was and what he was doing, Mickey’s reply was deliberately vague with a teasingly arched eyebrow, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I- I- I- I would- [ I would like to know! ](https://giphy.com/gifs/fWr4l6nRcUKydEiG2r) ” Ian sputtered behind him, _sotto voce_.

Mickey kept his face neutral until he was facing away, then smiled, heading to the refreshments table. He was pretty sure he’d seen someone come in with a huge bowl of red jello that had his name all over it. Jealous Ian plus Jello? This was shaping up to be a good night.

* * *

At the snack table, Mickey was on his second serving of Jello, trying hard to convince himself that no one would notice if he just took the whole bowl. The whole _five quart_ stainless-steel bowl. It was red jello, but even better, there were marshmallow bits mixed in and it was just. So. Good. He piled his plate up, [ looking around to see if he’d missed any goodies ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1278473197684264962), then figured he had enough.

He closed his eyes, savoring a bite, when he heard a noise at his side, and spun away, holding the plate to his chest defensively, like some wild animal was going to try and steal his jello. Emphasis on _try_. 

He realized it was Gallagher, some sixth sense meant he knew the cadence of his footfalls and the rhythm of his breathing. Hoping for more from Ian’s own green-eyed monster, he didn’t even turn to look, just held on tight to his jello plate and marched out of the open double doors. Mickey thought it was probably a bit childish to be so pleased by Ian’s jealousy, but his ego had been deflated for so long, the attention felt like a drug in and of itself. Feeling coy, reveling in the fact that Gallagher felt so strongly about him and no one else, he knew he was teasing by not even glancing back and just going straight through the halls. As predicted, Ian followed him like he knew he would. The footsteps stalked behind him, the sound of shoes turning from steps to stomps as Mickey kept a quick pace.

Instead of heading up the stairs or into the parking lot and the snow, he swerved left into an open coat closet, full of shelves, cardboard boxes, and hanging damp coats that smelled like wet dogs, smoke, and sweat. Facing the back of the space, he heard the door swing shut a bit ominously. 

“If this was a horror movie, you’d be dead right now,” the familiar voice remarked casually. 

“Yeah, but I’d die happy.” He turned, tilting his plate so Gallagher could see the half eaten jello.

“That all it takes to make you happy these days?”

_Were they flirting?_

“Maybe.” Mickey let his eyes lashes flutter shut as he took another huge mouthful, exaggerating his pleasurable moan.

_Definitely flirting._

And it was affecting Gallagher. His eyes had that intensity like he wanted to _eat_ Mickey, just climb into his skin and live there a while.

_Eh, might need to turn down the heat a bit._

“That speaker just wasn’t doin it for me, ya know?”

“I guess.” Ian had shoved his hands deep into his pockets, like if he didn’t keep them under control they’d do **something** “Why haven’t you been a speaker yet, Mick?”

The question took him by surprise. 

“Me?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Who the fuck wants to hear my story? Grew up a closeted fag-basher, beaten up by my dad, ~~rap~~ \- sexually assaulted, used drugs to forget all that. Real motivating stuff there.”

“I call bullshit. You have important things to say-”

Mickey shook his head, embarrassed.

“- yeah, you do,” Ian insisted. “You show that anyone can suffer, and anyone can recover. It’s inspirational as fuck how they tell us the ‘only thing you have to change is everything’, and you actually did that-”

His neck was burning now and Ian’s eyes were drawn, fixed on the collar of his shirt where the blush was creeping up. 

“Mick,” Ian’s voice was soft, but warm, “you’re, like, this amazing man and now other people can see it too.”

_Was he doing this on purpose? Sayin this shit to - what? Why?_

Mickey looked away, looked down, looked anywhere so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the praise that he _knew_ he didn’t deserve.

“You’ve always been amazing to me, though.” Ian had stepped closer, now they were less than a foot apart, upping the ante with his words and his body. The redhead reached out and carefully took the plate of Jello from Mickey’s hands, setting it on a nearby shelf without taking his eyes from the high color nearing Mickey’s jaw. The old, self-hating mantra started in his head.

_Good things are not for me. I am fucked for life. I ruin everything I touch. This will all disappear in one blink, if I take my eye off it for a moment, I’ll be back on the couch, watching him cry. Good things are_ **_not_ ** _for me._

He bit his lip, watching Ian’s gaze follow his movement, fixate on his lips.

_Maybe, maybe…?_

“Someday, Milkovich, you’re gonna realize that you’re more than ~~what your fa~~ \- what people told you when you were a kid. That you get to have good things in your life.

That was eerily close to what he had been thinking, and he peered at Gallagher through his lashes, wondering if the guy was secretly psychic.

“It’s your truth, and you should own it. I think speaking would help do that.”

The flush crept up to his chin now, Ian’s eyes watching raptly.

“Oh, Mick. If you don’t stop blushin’, I’m gonna kiss you. You’ve got until the count of three, if you don’t want me to.” Mickey could not stop the heat that rose through his cheeks. Ian’s arms came up, caging him against the wall. 

“One.” 

_Should I try and - what, leave?_

The undivided attention, Ian’s blown pupils watching the blood surge over Mickey’s face somehow made it worse. The tall man ran a light fingertip over the silver chain, possessively, not taking his gaze from Mickey’s skin.

“Two.” 

_What kind of kiss are we talking about, and does he know that’s not a deterrent but an incentive?_

Now his whole face was suffused with red. 

Then, without a third count, Ian swooped in, turning at the last moment to place his lips on Mickey’s cheek, then leaned down to nuzzle at the crook of his neck. “Got so mad, when that guy had his lips on you, Mick. So jealous.”

_Gallagher never said three?_

“I know,” Mickey tried to sooth him, bringing his hands up so passersby might think this was just a hug. _Just_ a hug, since when had that become the lesser evil?

Ian leaned back, staring into his eyes. “Do you? This face,” he placed a loud smacking kiss on the left, “is _mine_.” 

He switched to the other side, repeating the noise and action as Mickey squirmed. 

“He could never deserve you. No one could.”

The possibility of discovery, the illicit nature of what they were doing, and the passion in Ian’s eyes, the praise and the feeling of their bodies pressed together, all lit Mickey’s body on _fire_.

“This one too. Mine.” Ian was going back and forth, laying noisy smooches on each cheek, which was both sweet and frustrating. Mickey _wanted_ , wanted more.

“Jealous bitch.” The lack of heat in Mickey’s voice made it evident that he did not mind the jealousy in the least. Was turned on by it, even.

From the main room they could hear the countdown begin over a microphone: midnight was upon them. 

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Mickey raised his hands to Ian’s face, cupping it lightly. 

_He’d said kiss, and damn if Mickey wasn’t gonna get his kiss tonight. If they were gonna, might as well make it worth any potential fallout. Make it good enough to last, if things went sideways._

  
  


“Seven, six…”

He pulled Ian closer, softly pressing their lips together, feeling the electric jolt ignite inside him. They paused like that, air and breath between them, holding the moment. 

_Is that…? Should I stop?_

“Five, four…”

Ian took the initiative back, letting his hips meet Mickey’s body just as his mouth slid over Mickey’s, nipping at the full lower lip until Mickey opened, then licking in, dabbling at Mickey’s tongue and tasting him. 

“Three, two…”

Mickey’s hands had slid to the back of Gallgher’s head, holding him there, angling and opening his jaw, just letting Ian plunder his mouth, feeling how much he was _wanted_.

“One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!” The chorus from the main room didn’t even penetrate their little world, it was all lips and tongues and teeth. Ian’s hands had ended up sliding around and gripping Mickey’s ass, holding their bodies impossibly close, their breaths in sync as they panted and pushed.

He remembered his wedding, how that kiss, in a closet very much like this one, had turned into a quick fuck, their last one. The thought sobered him, and he pulled his face back, which Ian took as an opening to slide his mouth to Mickey’s neck, worrying at the silver chain with gentle teeth, pressing kisses up behind his ear. Mickey slid his hands to Ian’s shoulders, pushing at him, until he released Mickey’s skin and taste with a sad noise of loss.

  
  


A smile crept onto Mickey’s face as he looked down at his shoes, with Ian’s giant feet between them. When he looked up at Ian’s face, the smile slid away, replaced with his serious expression. 

_I’m gonna have to talk to AJ. Tell him what happened, tell him I broke my word._

“You can show happiness, Mickey. No one’s watching, and even if they are, no one here is judging.” Ian’s words interrupted his panicky-spiral of negative thoughts. 

“Are _you_ happy, Gallagher?” It was suddenly, vitally, important to Mickey that Ian not have regrets about what they’d done, about them, about him. He peered up at Ian’s face, scrutinizing it.

“Me? I just kissed my- my friend at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’m golden.” They both heard the pause, and Mickey knew he’d have to address that issue soon enough: whatever they were to each other was a fuckton more than friends. 

* * *

**_Back in the main hall…_ **

A small group had formed at the back of the auditorium, consisting of the two men’s sponsors and friends from all their meetings, having quick discussions in harsh whispers. 

_Should we say something?_

_Where’d they go?_

_Should they have kissed at midnight?_

_Were they kissing right now?_

_Were they doing more, and if so, where?_

_Did they realize how funny and obvious they were?_

****

Michelle crossed her arms and looked at AJ. He made a gesture of innocence, palms up. 

“Should we put them out of their misery?” she asked.

“I mean, we could. Their misery is still pretty fucking entertaining though.”

“AJ, you are a bad, bad man.”

“I am indeed.” He gave a wide smirk. “Whatdya think, one New Year’s kiss?”

The small group breathed in, hoping.

“The hugs aren’t enough,” a woman with purple hair piped up. “I need some action!” 

“Who had New Year’s Eve in the betting pool?” Michelle asked, giving in.

“I had Christmas, so I’m way off,” a whip-thin Black man in his 50’s put in.

AJ’s smirk broadened. 

“Oh, no. You don’t get to win just because we are going to _let_ them kiss!” Michelle objected.

“Think it’s too late for that.” AJ nodded in the direction of the two sponsees/offenders, who were doing a surreptitious walk of shame back into the hall, holding hands, lips pouty, wet, and red.

****

Michelle gave AJ a good-natured slow-clap, then dug into her pocket for her wallet. “Do you want me to go pay for your camping spot now, or reimburse you later?”

“Now would be fine.” He stroked his beard deliberately, like a super villain. “Never bet against lust, kids. You’ll lose every time. Will I see you and your sponsees at the campout, Michelle?”

She nodded, a twinkle in her eye.

“That’s not just lust,” the purple-haired woman protested. “They’re, like, in love, and stuff.”

“How would you know?” Her sidekick, the older man, wanted to be heard too.

“Can’t say, anonymity. Plus, you know, we don’t gossip.” Purple-hair retorted smugly.

“Then what are you two chickens still doing commenting on it?” Michelle shoo’ed the two off. Once they’d departed, she turned back to AJ. “Lust or love, I think betting against those two is the bad idea.”

“Hope so. I sure do hope so.” AJ’s voice was contemplative, and still a little self-satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kenny Hoopla is the greatest and you should all listen to the song.  
> 2\. Mandy doesn't know about Mickey and Ian yet. She will soon.  
> 3\. I had to make the screen shot of the "I would like to know!" moment myself because I couldn't find a single gif or shot online.  
> 4\. Another recovery cliche! The only thing you have to change is everything/You only have to change one thing about yourself, everything. Recovery is an inside job, i.e. we get better by working on ourselves from the inside out, because social acceptability doesn't equal recovery.  
> 5\. Sponsors probably don't bet on their sponsees habits. Or they shouldn't. But this is a work of fiction and it was too funny to me not to leave in.  
> 6\. Recovery camping trips are real, and wild.


	23. The Twelve Traditions of NA (January) (Split Perspective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout from the bet, Mandy and Ian catch up, a conflict, and a do-over is done.  
> \----  
> Soundtrack:  
> [I Think I’m OKAY - Machine Gun Kelly](http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wK-8TCDrbV8)  
> [How Bout Now - Grandson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tz2gBJaTnJY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far the journey has been Ian vs his mental illness, Mickey vs the system, Mickey vs Recovery, Ian vs Mickey, etc. Ch 23 represents a turning point: from here on out, it will be Ian and Mickey, together, facing everything life throws at them, as a unified front.  
> \---  
> Also, TERRIBLE news- this chapter was supposed to include February (Valentine’s Day!) but it got away from me and now the chapter count is up to 27. You can reasonably expect this to continue happening, because I suck at cutting out things I like.  
> \---  
> Why did no one tell me I have a terrible addiction to colons??  
> \---  
> If you find an error, please let me know.  
> Leave a comment to make me write faster (not necessary, but nice to get.)  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> The Twelve Traditions of NA (excerpt)  
> By following these guidelines in our dealings with others, and society at large, we avoid many problems. That is not to say that our Traditions eliminate all problems. We still have to face difficulties as they arise: communication problems, differences of opinion, internal controversies, and troubles with individuals and groups outside the Fellowship. However, when we apply these principles, we avoid some of the pitfalls.

_(Tuesday January 3rd_ **_\- Ian_ ** _)_

AJ and Michelle had waylaid Mickey and Ian before the meeting on Tuesday, pulling them into a private conversation in the snowy, wet parking lot.

“We had just decided to give you a free pass for a New Year’s Eve kiss, then we saw you two and we knew it was too late.” Ian could see Mickey’s anger building, as he glared back and forth at AJ and Michelle. The [ tight lips ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-LyBG7pSCq8/maxresdefault.jpg), clenched fists and hunched shoulders didn’t bode well for any of them.

“You- you fucks!” Mickey stormed off away from the church entrance, curses echoing off the icy buildings. It was only the third day of the new year and he was starting it by cursing out his sponsor. _Better than hitting the guy_ , Ian guessed.

Ian brought up a hand to rub his face, “I don’t get it, you guys were just gonna _let_ us? Because of a holiday?”

AJ and Michelle’s eyes met, and she answered. “It seemed cruel not to. But since you two did anyway, I’m not sure why he’s upset with us?”

“Aside from the fact that you guys had a literal bet on when we’d break your stupid rules? Sounds real fuckin’ spiritual.” Ian was pissed too, but he was working hard to keep it in check. He’d trusted Michelle. _He had trusted her._

Mickey came stomping back to them, kicking slush in their direction spitefully. 

He pointed his finger at AJ first, then Michelle, before swinging back to AJ. 

“You knew- you fuckin knew I’d be havin a meltdown and not even enjoy it- you knew that and you just let-” He inhaled deeply, trying to get the words out. “You owe us a do over. We get another.” He brought his chin down decisively, like that gesture would emphasize his point further.

AJ raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply.

Michelle spoke. “But do you really think you’ll be able to keep it in check? Ian has shared that your, uh, chemistry can be… powerful, and another interaction could be tempting fate.”

“ _Fuck_ tempting fate,” Ian rejoined. “Fate brought us together again, after all this time. Mick’s right. We’re owed a kiss we aren’t both feeling guilty for.”

Mickey had crossed his arms over his chest and stood just in front of Ian. As he spoke, Ian had felt Mickey’s weight sway back ever so slightly, the lightest bit of pressure and contact. _Support_.

It was AJ’s turn to weigh in.

“Kid’s right. It was shitty of us to bet, and shitty to give them permission after the fact. We don’t own you two, but I for one, will not be expecting Mickey to continue accepting CareBear contact when he could have PG-rated interactions with someone who clearly means so much to him. Kissing is in.”

Michelle wasn’t convinced. “We all know what happens to the vast majority of relationships in early recovery. I just want to help you two avoid that fate because I _believe_ in you two, for the long haul.”

“Nice fuckin words for someone who puts down _money_ on whether we’ll lock lips.” Mickey’s sneering tone was still bitter, and that seemed to affect Michelle. 

She looked abashed, but Mickey wasn’t done. “And none of that shit like, ‘well, he can do what he wants but I won’t sponsor him anymore.’ Gallagher needs you in his life, supportin him, and you can’t take that away cause of - cause of fuckin natural impulses.”

She nodded slowly, silently.

Mickey put his thumb up, not to point at anyone, but to count on. “New rule one- kissing is ok.” He popped up a second finger. “Rule two, nothin below the belt without prior discussion.” Third finger, “Rule three, no more fuckin bets. That shit makes me feel like an animal. You cool with that?” Mickey looked to AJ first, who nodded, then Michelle, who did likewise. 

Finally, he looked back and up at Ian. “That all work for you, Gallagher?”

Ian’s face relaxed, and he grinned, grabbing Mickey by the waist and turning him, placing a delicate kiss on the tip of his nose as the dark haired man got cross-eyed in surprise. “Yup, I’m good.”

* * *

_(Wednesday January 4th -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

It was the next afternoon and Ian was standing in front of the Milkovich house. He wasn’t being a creeper, Mickey had invited him over to play video games. _It wasn’t a date, he reminded himself. Unless… was ‘video games’ code for making out?_

They’d kept it very low key yesterday, trying not to rub their sponsors’ noses in their new freedom, but that meant they still hadn’t gotten their ‘do-over’. 

On the one hand, Ian really wanted to go in the house and see what kind of noises he could draw out of Mickey just from kissing him. Or even just watch Mickey beat him at video games while he petted Tina. 

But a large, ugly, insecure part of him was still scared that the making out would escalate and he’d disappoint Mickey, or make him feel unattractive, unwanted.

Instead of having more time to perseverate, the front door banged open and Tina bounded out, trailing a leash, followed by a scrambling woman.

“Hey, Tina, come on, hey!”

“Mandy?” He knew the face, the eyes so like Mickey’s, the features barely aged, even if the makeup was toned down a bit. Logically he knew Mandy lived here too, Mickey had referred to her enough. But Ian hadn’t given any thought to actually seeing her again until she stood in front of him.

“Ian Gallagher! No fucking shit. Knew you and my brother were at it again, but I wasn’t sure if you’d ever grace me with your presence.”

Tina had stopped her headlong run in front of the nearest patch of dead grass and was squatted down peeing.

“Good to see you, Mands.” He grinned. “You look good.”

“No, bitch, I look _fabulous_. C’mere.” She engulfed him in a hug that was mostly a squeezing competition between the two of them that left them both breathless and laughing in the cold.

After Tina had finished her business, she trundled up the steps and sat in front of the door, glancing back at the two laughing humans to see who would come let her in.

“Mickey’s at the store but he should be back any time now.” She led Ian up the steps and into the living room.

“Yeah, I’m a little early, I guess.”

“Excited to see him, huh?” She flopped onto the couch, which had a new blanket covering it. It looked less like _the couch_ that had haunted so many of his late night musings of where his and Mickey's relationship might have gone wrong in the past, and more like a generalized, innocuous piece of furniture. He still knew what was lurking underneath, and sat down on a wobbly wooden bar stool by the kitchen.

“I mean- has he told you anything?”

“Mickey? Talk about his life? Have you _met_ him?” Ian grinned, she was the same old Mandy, clever and perceptive. He always felt like she could read his moods so casually, even after all the time that had elapsed.

“Seriously, my brother has been utterly gone on you since you first pounded him while our dad was in the next room, doesn’t mean he’s gonna tell me shit, just means we have really thin walls.” She cut a sharp glance in his direction.

“We- we’re not, it’s not like that. Yet.” Ian knew what she was implying, and he didn’t want to delineate his sexual issues to yet another person. It was easier to blame it on recovery. “Our sponsors don’t want us to take it beyond kissing right now so we’re taking it slow. Really, really slow.”

Mandy snorted, “Well whenever that stops being the case just keep in mind: Really. Thin. Walls.”

Ian’s heart beat double-time, hearing that, but he tried to keep his composure to focus on his old friend. “Fair point. Tell me about you then- you workin’?”

* * *

_(Wednesday January 4th -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

When Mickey walked in a quarter of an hour later, Ian and Mandy were deep into an analysis of her newest hookup. 

“It sounds like he is having some black and white thinking about your relationship and really, it should be about give and take…”

_Gallagher sounded smart,_ he realized, putting away the groceries (frozen pizza bagels, soda, and dog biscuits), then watching the two friends from the kitchen, his elbows propped on the counter.

There weren’t any pauses in the conversation where he could even break in, not that he really wanted to interrupt their little catch-up session. He wasn’t even ( _very_ ) jealous that he’d invited Gallagher over to ‘play video games’ or whatever, and instead he was spending it with his sister. 

_Ok, he was_ **_super_ ** _fucking jealous because all he wanted to do was suck the guy’s face off and maybe grind in his lap_ \- Mickey stopped the thought-train. It was healthy and normal, he guessed, for Mandy and Gallagher to hang out, to be friends. Didn’t mean he would be left out in the cold. He snuck off to his room to try and occupy himself.

That occupation came in the form of drawing. Since his previous conversations about hobbies and careers and shit, he’d thought about trying to draw again, see if he was any good. Turned out, he was crap at drawing from life. Portraits? Looked like fucking Dali-esque monsters. But abstract art, like shapes and lines? He wasn’t bad. He’d amassed a small pile of drawings he actually liked, or at least hated less, and kept them on a clipboard next to his bed. 

Late at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d pull out the clipboard and a pen, and try something. It soothed him to work mindlessly, making the lines behave however his hand dictated. Many nights it was just trash. But last night he’d started something that was a cross between [ a shooting star and a tornado ](https://tattoogrid.net/abstract-storm-tattoo-on-the-calf/). He’d gotten too sleepy to finish it right, so he figured now was as good a time as any. No way he’d fall asleep with those two hyena’s yukking it up in the living room.

  
  


Soon, he heard his own name, but in hushed tones. He shrugged and tried to focus on the paper in front of him. But it was Mandy and Ian, so it escalated.

“Yo, Mickey, come ‘ere a sec!” Mandy bellowed.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey unfolded his body and set his clipboard aside carefully before leaning out his bedroom door.

“The fuck you want?” He spit the words at her, but glanced to see what Gallagher was doing- staring at the floor and not meeting his eyes? _That was weird…_

“Is Ian your boyfriend?”

_Oh, we’re doing this right now?_

“You called me in here for this shit?” he blustered, trying to see if he could get out of the conversation.

“Well?” Mandy persisted.

_Guess now was as good a time as any._

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He ducked back into his bedroom before he could watch Ian’s reaction, but the hoot of laughter from Mandy told him that it involved equal parts embarrassment and happiness.

He swung his head back out, “You called me out here for that- what’re you asking stupid fucking questions for? I could have been busy.” He watched Ian carefully, looking for some sign that he _wasn’t_ going to spend the whole night alone.

“But you weren’t!” Mandy replied in a sing-song voice. “Just give up the pretense and come hang out with us, bro.”

“Was given’ you two- uh, space. Old friends, catching up and shit.”

“Nah, Mick, come sit. Please?” Ian was patting the couch cushion in front of him. He had his long legs curled up under him, leaving an inviting opening. Mickey bit his lip, considering.

“If you don’t move your ass, Tina’s gonna get there first,” Mandy taunted.

That decided him. Mickey walked ( _quickly_ ) and flopped into the open space, not thinking about Mandy, what she thought, what she’d say, or do. He just made his own comfy spot, elbowing Gallgher a few times in the process, and leaned back on him like a human cushion. 

“If you two fuckers want food, you’re gonna have to get it yourselves cause I ain’t movin any time soon.” He could sense Ian grinning behind him, felt him lean down and drop a small kiss on the crook of Mickey’s neck where the chain lay.

“Ay, fuck you. Already ate. Gotta piss though.” Mandy stood with a flounce and headed out. 

He knew, _he knew_ , she was giving him a break, a respite from being seen like this, in an intimate position. He thought he might love her for that, as he could feel his skin lighting up with the red that always accompanied Gallagher’s lips on him.

“So…” he didn’t know what to say, but he felt like the air was waiting for one of them to talk about it.

“Yeah,” Gallagher agreed. “Boyfriends, huh?”

“Don’t make it a thing, ok? Just figured I might as well lock you down before another one of your exes shows up in a meeting and tries to- Hey, what’s wrong?” He’d been intent on teasing Gallagher, but the physical tension that shot through the previously warm, relaxed body was like an alarm bell.

Ian bent forward again, rubbing his face against Mickey’s shoulder like a damn cat. 

“Seriously, Ian, what the fuck- I was just kiddin, I’m not worried about-”

“-It’s not that, Mick.” Ian’s voice was small. 

Mickey elbowed him in the ribs. It seemed easier than pleading with him to forgive whatever stupid nonsense Mickey had said that had hurt him in any way.

“Oww! Hey, ok, ok. It wasn’t an ex- it was just, I saw an old dealer at a meeting recently.” Ian was rubbing his recently-elbowed rib ostentatiously.

“Bound to happen. I tell you I got sixty bucks off an old customer, awhile back? AJ nearly shat himself when I told him.” Mickey was trying to keep it light, get Gallagher to laugh at him, anything.

“Yeah, I don’t owe this guy anything, anymore.”

“Anymore?” Mickey felt his pulse race at the thought of what Ian might mean.

“Back then, you know, before I got clean-” Ian had his face buried in Mickey’s neck, his lips moving against the flesh with warm, damp breaths. In any other circumstance, it would be intolerably exciting, but Mickey knew this wasn’t the time. He willed his libido down.

“- I owed the guy. And I didn’t have cash, cause I never did. I mean- you know how I- how I paid, usually.”

Mickey knew. Gallagher paid with his body. With his hand, or his mouth, his cock, or maybe even his ass. 

“Yep.” He tried to make the word sound flat, not judgmental or shit, but then he worried he sounded dismissive, and reached back, grabbing Gallagher’s hand, holding it in his own, as a form of comfort to them both. 

“But this guy, he was a fuckin homophobe. Like, always talkin about how many gay people he’d beaten up.”

Mickey breathed deeply, knowing that could have been him, _had_ been him, in another life. 

“So when I couldn’t pay, he and his thugs gave me a 30-second head start, and then they chased me. It was like a fucking game.”

“Ian, you don’t have to-”

“Shhh, Mick, let me get this out.”

Mickey shut up, but he squeezed the large hand between his own tattooed fingers.

“And I was sick, cause I’d been up for like a week, maybe? Of course they caught me, and they beat the shit out of me. Pretty sure they broke a rib, but I bit my tongue when one of them punched me, and I spit blood on them. Learned that spitting blood on people, especially fag bashers, freaks em out. So that got ‘em to back off. I was so sure I was gonna die that night.”

Ian stopped for a moment, just [ inhaling against Mickey’s neck ](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/nEdG52pEkNr4Fw2gUKrChKA0T_M/fit-in/2048xorig/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2018/10/23/907/n/1922283/0b6adaba608a05a6_3/i/When-Ian-Tells-Carl-Ever-So-Simply-What-He-Loves-About-Mickey.gif), like it was helping him somehow, then continued.

“Anyway, when I saw him at the meeting, it freaked me out. I thought he was gonna try and- I dunno, hurt me again, maybe. Or tell people- god, it’s so dumb. Like people at a meeting care if I’m an addict or how I got my shit. I just flashed back to it, and now I’m worried it’ll happen if I see him again, that I’ll have a meltdown or do something stupid. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Uh, well, nothing’s wrong with you. I think it’s probably hard for a normal person to shake off a drug dealer hunting them.” Mickey was trying to be comforting, but what did he say to that?

“Dunno about you, but addicts are generally not normal humans.”

“Smart ass. Look, how many meetings do you make with Michelle every week?”

_Ok, he could fix this. He could help Gallagher, for once in his useless life._

“One or two, usually.”

“Ok, so we’ll go to the rest together. Won’t be too hard for AJ to swing over to your house and get you, or we can just walk to the ones nearby.”

“You- you don’t have to do that. That’s not why I-”

Mickey twisted on the couch, facing Ian, eyes fierce.

“Just shut up. Did you ever think maybe I _want_ to help you? Protect you?”

Ian’s face was [ downcast, eyes sad ](https://images.8tracks.com/cover/i/008/969/567/BypH7RXfHS0-4662.jpg?rect=3,0,460,460&q=98&fm=jpg&fit=max&w=960&h=960) . “Maybe it’s too much. Maybe _I’m_ too much.”

“You say that again, I’ll rip your tongue outta your head.” The old threat rolled off his tongue, reminding both of them of that first summer, before it had all gone to shit.

“Seriously, Mick. The new diagnosis, all my shit just seems like it’s never gonna end, maybe I should just go back to the meth-” There were tears thickening his voice, and a quaver.

Mickey hit him, then. 

Not hard, but an open-handed slap to the side of the head, just to - to stop him, maybe? The same way he’d play-slapped Mandy and Iggy at least once a month since forever, but somehow, with Gallagher, it was different. 

It worked though, that was the _worst_ part, hitting him worked, as Gallagher’s jaw clicked shut and his eyes went wide, the first huge wet tears falling on his shirt, making dark stains on the cotton.

What he’d done reverbated in his mind as Mickey scrambled to the other end of the couch, horrified, burying[ his face in one hand ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/26/84/2d/26842deba72357dece19571d9aaffb6c.png). 

Images of Terry were playing in his mind, a non-stop highlight reel of every blow he’d been dealt, of Mickey’s own blood spraying on the walls, the broken bones, the bruises blooming on pale skin.

He **never** wanted to hurt Ian and he already had. Just like his father. The thing is, Mickey has always wanted to be a caretaker, on some level. A provider, to have people be proud of him. The leaving, the lashing out, those were his coping strategies for when his goals were incompatible with his reality. Now, just when it had been within his grasp, the hope was slipping away, because he was his father’s son.

_You’re just like your father. Good things are not for me. I am fucked for life. I ruin everything I touch. Just like Terry._

  
  


“Sor- sorry. Just- just fucking go.” He struggled and started to get up, trying to head to his room so he wouldn’t have to watch Gallagher go, knowing he’d fucked it all up again _so damn quickly_ , but a strong arm wound around his waist, holding him, standing in front of the couch.

If he’d wanted to, he could have pulled away from Ian’s grasp.

“Mickey,” the voice was soft, the words dropped against the top of his spine. _God, he hated the softness, didn’t deserve it._

“Have you ever apologized before? Like, ever? Cause you’re legitimately awful at it.” His arm was still wrapped around Mickey’s waist as he stood there, Ian kneeling on the couch, chest tightly pressed to Mickey’s back.

Tina had noticed the commotion, and was standing beside him. Her wet nose nudged at Mickey’s limp hand. Without thinking, he slid his hand over her smooth head and down her ear, before realizing it was the hand he’d hit Ian with. He pulled back his hand like the dog had bitten him. 

He sat heavily and gracelessly, just collapsing on the couch, uncaring where his limbs fell. After a moment, he sensed, more than felt, Gallagher looking at him, and opened his eyes. Gallagher had his head resting on the back of the couch a foot away from Mickey’s own, and was watching him, silent tears running down his face. 

“You didn’t hurt me, Mick.”

“Could of, though.” Mickey closed his eyes as the terrible moment replayed in his mind, his hand coming up, over and over. “Made you cry.”

“Nah, you didn’t. I’ve had worse hits from Debbie- from Liam, even. And I was already crying, you didn’t _make_ shit happen.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at that, and Ian seemed to intuit exactly why.

“I’m not saying you’re a pussy, I just mean you _do_ have the power to hurt someone, but you didn’t. You didn’t hurt me. Just, like, surprised me.” Ian hiccoughed, rubbing his eyes with his fist.

“You- you can’t talk about using again, man.” Mickey felt like the bitterly hot words were erupting out of his throat like bubbles popping out of a lava pit. “I don’t know- I couldn’t- if you went out, I’d go too. With you.”

His words echoed in the room between them.

Gallagher stared at him, green eyes luminous and lambent. “Would you, really? I know it’s super unhealthy, but it feels good to hear, you know?”

“Fuck, yes. Where you go, I go, from now on. I don’t wanna lose another month or decade cause I’m a dumb piece of shit.”

“But- what if, don’t you have better things to do, with your life? Cause you’re not dumb. I know ~~your~~ \- Terry told you that but it’s a lie.”

_Every day. Every day he told me I was a complete fucking waste of a life, that he should have pulled out that night and saved the trouble. That I ruin everything I touch. Like my life isn’t a complete fucking waste if you're not in it?_

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled carefully. The hamster-wheel of negativity in his head slowed, the word-vomit of pain trailing off.

_What is the truth in this situation?_

“I know I’m not dumb.”

_T_ _his was hard to say out loud; why was it so hard to say good things about himself aloud?_

Keeping his eyes shut, Mickey continued, “And I really don’t have better things to do with my life. On fucking drug court for more than two more years. And after that, I don’t know. I don’t know what my future looks like, but I know I don’t want it if you aren’t there. Ok?”

Fingertips were brushing his cheeks then, stroking away tears he hadn’t known were there, but he pressed on, trying to get the words out before his courage failed him and he reverted to- _to what? To running away? To physical violence? Fuck that shit. **No more.**_

“You can’t tell me I’m worth it and not accept that about yourself, too. You gotta believe that you get to recover. Everything that matters, you’ve got. You think that was what, an accident? You built this life, hard work, recovery every day. You have a life, you have people that - that care about you. Cause you deserve it. So shut the hell up, and kiss me, Gallagher.”

Ian pulled his head back, eyes glittering with interest. “You know, Milkovich, I like the way you think.”

_Jesus, it was like the guy genetically had to the get the last wo-_

Mickey’s brain shorted out as Ian surged up against him, slowly, deliberately. Their lips met, kindling a heat in Mickey’s belly, like his whole body was dipped in bright gold fire. 

Ian’s tongue slid into Mickey’s mouth, stroking and touching lightly at the roof of his mouth. It felt as if Mickey was drowning, had stopped being a thing that breathed just so he could feel every touch that much more clearly. The clean taste of his mouth, mixed with something that was just intrinsically _Ian_ , was like an addiction of its own. Ian’s hands came up, cupping Mickey’s face, thumbs sliding, pressing on the sensitive flesh behind his ears, as he pulled back minutely to play-bite at Mickey’s full lower lip. 

Mickey chased his mouth, giving as good as he was getting, pressing his advantage. One of Ian’s stupid big hands slid down, curving around his throat, petting at his pulse point while Mickey tried to convey how sorry he was for using his hands in anger, how much he cared, how much Ian meant, all with his tongue and his lips and his teeth, and it must have worked because he was feeding Mickey tiny moans as Mickey’s hands fisted the thin material of Gallagher’s tee shirt. 

Their breathing raced, and the urge to do more, go further, to touch and feel everything was heavy in the air. Mickey used his fists to push himself away from Gallagher’s mouth, pressing him back onto the couch so there was space between them. Ian blinked at him owlishly, eyes flicking to his mouth, which made [ Mickey grin ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B9XWRqohRdu/). For just a moment, they were good. They were safe, even in this house; they were together, even after everything that had happened. 

Mickey looked down at Ian’s crotch pointedly, pupils blown, blue barely visible. 

“Looks like ya got a problem there, tough guy.”

“I got a _big_ problem, alright.” Ian replied, [ his face bright and beaming ](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/shameless/images/a/a4/Season_10_promotional_poster_Ian_Gallagher.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20191204100121). Mickey was irrationally pleased that after everything, the day, the months, and the years, he was still able to put that happy smile on Gallagher’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I cannot humanly let the Care Bear thing go, sorry.  
> 2\. AJ was very clear earlier in the story about no sexual contact, but he didn't say no "video games."  
> 3\. Stole a convo from Trevor, I like it better here.  
> 4\. The head-slap heard round the world.  
> 5\. Dude, no, you should NOT go out and use with your partner if they do, no matter how in love you are. But canonically, Mickey follows Ian. It's just who is he is.  
> 6\. The chapter ends with a kiss: this isn't my avoiding showing you smut, Mickey and Ian literally stop there. But yay for Ian's dick not being useless!  
> 


	24. Behind the Walls (February) (Split perspective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A somewhat non traditional Valentine.  
> \---  
> [Appreciated](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b70AjcQWQkE) by Rixton (credit to @mickscroptop)  
> [Shine a Little Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jknn7MMszNo) by The Black Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, why has the average # of hits per chapter on this suddenly more than doubled? WTF? I am getting anxiety just watching them tick up. Maybe all you new people could- comment? Say hey? Welcome? Also this might be MY favorite chapter to date.  
> \---  
> I don't know how this chapter become twice as long as my usual chapters, and written in about a day and a half, but I enjoyed the process.  
> \---  
> If you catch a mistake, let me know so I can fix it.  
> Leave a comment to make me write faster (not necessary, but nice to get.)  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> [Behind the Walls](https://na.org/admin/include/spaw2/uploads/pdf/litfiles/us_english/Booklet/Behind%20the%20Walls.pdf)  
> “Some days, my head tells me that it’s okay to use, especially if I am hurting emotionally. Feelings like shame, guilt, inadequacy, or fear were always enough to start the whole mad cycle all over again. But today my heart and friends in the program tell me that all pain will pass, and to use again would be my destruction. The miracle is that, if I don’t use drugs, the problem I am facing gets easier. The sad thing in my life is that I never learned that, because I got high rather than face life on life’s terms.  
> ...  
> As we work the steps, our reactions and feelings change. We begin to attract others into our lives. We start to allow people to get close to us, rather than drive them away. We learn to trust, and to be trusted. We no longer have to hide who we are for fear of being rejected. The sense of emptiness all addicts know begins to leave us.  
> ...  
> Experiences in recovery are often new, strange, and frightening. Sometimes the pull of old friends and old ways is strong. It seems as if it would be easier to go back to using, but using is not the answer for addicts. We have found a new way to live which is better than anything we have ever known. Even though we experience hardships, we are not willing to go back to the life we had before we got clean.”

_(February 5th -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

**(Unknown Number) (9:12 AM):** Hey is this Ian?

**Ian (9:13 AM):** new 📞 who dis

**(Unknown Number) (9:14 AM):** This is Kate R., your sponsee sister?

**Ian (9:14 AM):** ???

**(Unknown Number) (9:15 AM):** Purple-hair Kate

**Ian (9:15 AM):** oooooooooh HI!!1!1

**Kate R. (9:16 AM):** Hi 👋

**Kate R. (9:16 AM):** Michelle asked me to talk to you about the area camping trip

**Ian (9:17 AM):** camping tripppp? ⛺

**Kate R. (9:18 AM):** In May. Michelle said to tell you your spot is paid for, and that we should share a tent, if that’s cool with you?

**Ian (9:19 AM):** YESSS SO COOL! CANT WAIT ⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺⛺

**Ian (9:19 AM):** wait were is it?

**Kate R. (9:20 AM):** 😂😂 [Thomas Woods](https://thedyrt.com/camping/illinois/thomas-woods-in-marengo-ridge-conservation-area) Memorial Day Weekend. See you tonight?

**Ian (9:20 AM):** ⛺ totttally ⛺ ⛺ 

_Why hadn’t Michelle reached out herself?_

Ian just rolled with it, thinking of all the things that could happen in the woods: bonfires, s’mores, hiking in the woods, hearing bird-calls, finding hidden streams. _Was Mickey coming too?_ Unbidden, an image swam into his mind: Mickey, face smeared with chocolate the way it used to be with [ dirt ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EV4UNl9XQAEOwlh.jpg) and bruises, or the two of them lying on a blanket, looking at the stars together. 

Just like every time he thought about Mickey since the kiss on the couch ( _which was its own type of reclaiming trauma_ ), and their subsequent kisses, his cock twitched, flexing and plumping slightly in his boxers. 

He’d spent more time hard in the past month that he recalled since adolescence. At least, hard and _not_ doing anything about it. That had been Ed’s most recent suggestion for coping with his ‘issue,’ his sexual PTSD. The theory was that if he allowed erections to come and go, no pun intended, without acting on them, his body would learn that arousal was an ok thing that happened without feeling the pressure to perform or fearing the outcome. Basically, he’d signed up for his dick to be left on read. 

It had sounded crazy at the time, but the fact that he was able to become aroused and not descend into panic felt like progress. Every time the frustration got too great, he’d think back to Mickey’s eyes darkening as he’d looked down at Ian’s considerable bulge between them. He was doing this for them, and somehow that made it easier to press on than just doing it for himself. 

_Time to go distract myself. Again._

The house was already clean, and he’d gone for a run earlier. His fourth step was still calling his name; he’d put it down for a while ( _ok, a month or so_ ) but he was rapidly running out of excuses. He was almost done, and every time he came back to the notebook, it was easier to write about the things he’d skipped for being too hard on prior days. 

The most difficult section had turned out to be the resentments portion. It wasn’t hard to write about who or what he resented, the list was long, stretching from his grandparents ( _why didn’t they come help us?_ ) to society as a whole ( _why are gay people still so stigmatized? Why isn’t there more social support for mental health issues?_ ). The problem was writing about his part in the situations. Mostly, he wasn’t the victim in every circumstance- in many, he’d been at least partially a volunteer. 

* * *

_(February 12th 11:30 pm -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

Ultimately, what sent Mickey to jail on _Valentine's Day_ of all fuckin days was Iggy, who had stupidly hidden a stash of weed in the house, then gotten popped trying to sell it to an undercover policewoman, which then led to officers executing a search warrant on the house. 

Where Mickey lived. 

Where Iggy had stuffed 30 ounces of pot under his mattress like a goddamn three-year-old. It was _almost_ enough for Mickey to wish his dad was home to smack Iggy around for being so stupid. 

_Almost, but also not even close._

Mickey and Ian were in Mickey’s bedroom that night, [ fast asleep ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EccgNXzXYAEOXQv?format=jpg&name=small). Fully dressed. They’d been exhausted after another late night of playing video games and making out, and snow had been coming down fast and icy when Mickey looked outside. Mandy had already texted that she was staying at a girlfriend’s house because the busses had stopped running. 

Gallagher had still tried to leave, which was a stupid ass idea that Mickey elected to ignore. 

Then Mickey said he’d take the couch, which made Gallagher just stick out his chin and refuse. Which is how they both ended up on Mickey’s bed, not even spooning, just snoring lightly and drooling, Tina curled between their legs.

But if Mickey didn’t have bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. 

_Of course_ it was his first night sleeping with Gallagher ( _chaste as fuckin’ nuns_ ) when the cops kicked in Mickey’s door, grabbing every Milkovich in the house and handcuffing them, (which ended up just being Mickey, after Ian waved his ID in the officer’s face). 

They ran Mickey’s name for prior offences, and Drug Court came up, which meant a mandatory trip to jail while he waited on results of a blood test for illicit substances. Not even the instant piss tests he’d been giving Emily weekly. Turnaround on the blood test was _at least_ three days. 

Mickey still thought half-way maybe he was dreaming. Like a bad, shitty, terrible nightmare. But he didn’t fight the officers, didn’t make shit worse with his mouth or his fists, even if every instinct in his body wanted him to start swinging and cursing until they were dragging his unconscious body to the patrol car. 

He didn’t want Gallagher to see him beaten in this house again, couldn’t make him watch that, not here. He sucked it up, kept his eyes down, listening to [ Gallagher ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/4dc4cc574b5670f3e26d6bf406213699/tenor.gif?itemid=15733387) shouting, threatening the cops, “He’s in a program, you assholes! He’s got a sponsor! You can’t just _take_ him!” Tina was barking madly and jumping around; Ian had to hold onto her. At least he knew Gallagher would take care of the mutt, he was soft like that for all helpless things like babies and animals.

Mickey kept his mouth shut, and went with them. 

_Mother fucking growth._

\---

At the precinct, he knew he had to be searched, and put into a jumpsuit. His clothing and effects were tagged and bagged. He’d get them back whenever he was released. The only part he really struggled with was taking the chain off- Officer McDouchbag #1 had weighed it casually in his hand, assessing.

“It ain’t worth shit, but it was a gift, so it better be there when I get my crap back,” Mickey gritted out between clenched teeth as Officer McDouchbag #2 got a little too handsy around his junk. “Sorry man, I ain’t into pork.”

“Fuck you, Milkovich. Wouldn’t touch your dirty trash if you paid me!” 

McDouchbag #1 dumped the chain into the baggie with Mickey’s boots and socks before sealing it up. It wasn’t a guarantee, but at least he’d seen the chain go in the bag, not directly into some asshole’s pocket.

* * *

_(February 13th 6:00 am -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

Ian, well, to say Ian had a tantrum would be invalidating and demeaning. Did he cry on the phone to Michelle for an hour and half before she picked him up for a sunrise meeting? Certainly. 

But he still made his meeting, pale face ashen in the fluorescent lights, freckles standing starkly on his skin, sorrow and pain writ large across his features. He was grateful not to have to explain the situation; Michelle had apparently briefed Kate, who sat beside him, holding his hand in her own plump, be-ringed fingers. 

_I am not alone anymore. I have people now. Mickey will be home in a few days. This didn’t happen because we were together. This did NOT happen because we were together._

_But what if it_ **_had_ ** _?_

* * *

_(February 13th 7:00 am -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

Mickey knew enough to immediately request protective custody. The CO needed to write a reason on her little form, which made him [ smirk ](https://media.tenor.com/images/04e59ac2a6860aafb0086855f6985b03/tenor.gif).

“You seen my tag? My name? _Milkovich_.”

Her face blanched.

“Yeah, that fucker, Terry, is my pops. And he kind of wants to murder me. Slowly. With some torture thrown in for good measure. Maybe a gang rape, too, for funsies.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, realizing he needed to spell it out for her.

“He ain’t cool with having a queerbo-faggot who takes it up the ass for a son. So you need to put me in my own little cell before I end up dead nine different ways and you have _more_ paperwork to fill out, k?”

The CO quickly acquiesced, and Mickey had a cell to himself, on 23-hour lockdown. 

_Safe. Lonely, but as safe as he could get, here._

* * *

_(February 13th 11:00 am -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

His cell phone was ringing. Ian ignored it.

It rang again, **Number Unknown (** **_Potential Scam_ ** **).** Angrily, he hit the button to reject the call.

“Hey, kiddo.” Michelle was addressing him, might have been talking already for a while, so he fixed his eyes on her and tried to focus. They were in her house, in an airy breakfast nook flooded with weak winter sunlight making the natural wood furnishings shine. A cup of tea was in front of him on the table, but he hadn’t touched it. Kate sat to his left, nibbling delicately on a cookie. He could see her roots, the grey; she needed her color touched up.

“Ian?” He’d lost track of Michelle, her voice brought him back, again.

“Yes. Michelle.” He turned his head, again trying to maintain his attention. 

“See,” she said, heaving a deep sigh, “this is what I was afraid of. Something happens to Mickey, and you’re- well, you’re not yourself.”

“He’s in fucking _jail_ , Michelle. He could be beaten to death. He could be raped. He could fuck someone else!”

Kate and Michelle made eye contact. Michelle picked up her rapidly cooling mug of tea, taking a sip as Kate spoke.

“It’s just a 72 hour hold, Ian. I don’t think even Mickey could piss someone off that fast, at least not enough to murder him.”

His phone beeped, alerting him that he had a voicemail, but he didn’t have time for shit like that, not right now.

“You don’t get it, neither of you do. His father is in there, the one who had him raped at gunpoint by a Russian hooker and made me watch! Like, the root of all my trauma, and I wasn’t even the one getting fucked- he’s in there, and now Mickey’s in there _with_ him, and _anything_ could happen and …”

He was hyperventilating, and he knew it. He shut his mouth, closing his eyes, trying to breath through his nose slowly. 

The voicemail alert began beeping yet again, breaking his concentration and silence. Ian’s eyes popped open, hand already reaching, ready to throw the thing across the room. Kate put her hand out, stopping him. 

“Don’t you think it might be important? Why don’t you at least check your voicemail?”

He gave in, tapping the buttons agitatedly, accidentally playing the voicemail on speaker.

“ **HELLO, THIS IS A CALL FROM AN INMATE AT A CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. TO ACCEPT THE CALL AND ACCESS PAYMENT OPTIONS, PLEASE PRESS ZERO.** ”

The horror that crossed Ian’s face might have been funny, in another context, but Michelle just reached behind her, grabbing her purse and placing it on the table. 

“What do I- do I call back? Can I call him? What if he doesn’t- can’t call again? How do I- I have to pay?” His panicky desperation had him breathing rapidly again, gasping. 

“I’ll set it up with my card. I still feel bad about the New Year's situation, so this is my amends, giving you the ability to communicate.”

Ian squeezed her arm in gratitude, and stared at the phone, willing it to ring again. 

Minutes passed. 

Tea was drunk. 

Kate ate another cookie.

The clock on the wall made a faint ticking noise.

The cell rang, making them all jump.

Ian scrambled to hit the Accept Call button, putting it on speaker.

“ **HELLO, THIS IS A CALL FROM** it’s fucking mickey pick up you ass- **AN INMATE AT A CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. TO ACCEPT THE CALL AND ACCESS PAYMENT OPTIONS, PLEASE PRESS ZERO.** ”

Hearing Mickey’s voice in the middle of the automation brought a small smile to Ian’s face. He hit zero, then handed the phone to Michelle. 

She entered her card info, which took far too long in Ian’s estimation, having to enter the whole 16 digit code, the security code, the expiration date, and her zip code, then zero _again_ to confirm that she was accepting the charges.

“I have to do this every time he calls?” Ian whispered, somewhat afraid that the automated system would hear him and disconnect them vengefully.

“I can do it online, if you want. After you find out how long he’s in there.”

Ian’s eyes widened, “Wait, you think longer than 72 hours?”

“I don’t _think_ anything. I want to hear from him.”

“ **THANK YOU FOR YOUR PAYMENT** ,” the automated voice broke in. “ **ALL CALLS ARE SUBJECT TO RECORDING AND MONITORING.** ”

A click, and suddenly the call had background noise, air.

“Yo, Gallagher, you there?”

“Mick, hey, Mickey, you’re on speaker, I’m here, I can hear you!”

“Cool, cool, ok. Thanks for payin to talk to me. I figured I’d try a few times in case you were busy or something.”

“I didn’t pay, Michelle did. I wasn’t busy- just didn’t recognize the number.”

“Oh. Michelle’s there?”

“I’m here, Mickey.” Michelle had leaned in, making sure she would be heard clearly.

“Uh, thanks. For this.”

“You’re very welcome. Ian was pretty worried about you. I’m going to go, and you two can talk. You have a few minutes left, I think.”

She gave Kate a pointed look, and led her out of the room, and up the wooden hill.

“How long?” Ian’s voice was low, serious.

“I dunno know, supposed to be three days, right? Shouldn’t be more than a week, if I don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like stab that stupid twat CO who keeps tryin to touch my ass.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that, like, an extreme issue, officers taking advantage of a prisoner?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I keep a plastic fork handy for when they get handsy.”

“Don’t stab anybody, Mickey!”

“Not even as a joke?”

“No, Mickey, that’s not funny!”

“[ You kidding? That’s extremely funny. ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcTL8axAuL7FXkh2iBhoKX7k8mR8uHAF4l1qxg&usqp=CAU)”

“You staying in there even one extra hour isn’t funny to me.” Ian paused, not sure he was ready to address the other major issue on his mind, but he plunged ahead. “Are there- are there hot guys in there, with you? Lip always said prison was like, gay heaven.”

“Gallagher, what the fuck? No, there are no quote unquote _hot guys_ in here with me. I’m in protective custody, so it’s basically solitary confinement, plus if I even looked at a dude, I think my father would sign my death warrant, if he hasn’t already.”

“Oh.”

“ _Oh_ , seriously? You thought I’d come to jail and start looking for a hookup? You are literally the hottest guy I know, ok?”

“Aww, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I’m just kind of feared up, being woken up by cops always messes with my head.”

“Same, same. Look-”

“ **YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE REMAINING**.”

“Miss you,” Ian admitted. 

Mickey didn’t reply, not for many seconds.

“Yeah, last night was-”

“ **THANK YOU FOR USING THE GLOBAL TELELINK AUTOMATED CORRECTIONAL CALLING SYSTEMS. HAVE A NICE DAY**.”

“Motherfucker that was less than a minute!” Ian shouted at the now disconnected phone, causing Michelle and Kate to hurry back into the room.

“Ian, is everything ok?”

“Yeah, yes, sorry, we just got cut off when the time ran out.”

Michelle sat down at the table, laying a hand over his. “Well, I set up the online payment, so next time he calls, you should have more time.”

“Thanks, I- I really don’t know how to handle this, not clean.”

“Don’t let it eat your lunch, kid.” This was Kate, chiming in.

“Huh?” Ian didn’t get it.

“Like, a bully eats your lunch? Don’t let your thoughts be your bully,” she explained.

He still had a puzzled look on his face.

“I’ve heard it as ‘Don’t let it rent space in your head’.” Michelle added. “Like, don’t invite negative thoughts in and make them comfortable.”

“But what am I supposed to do, instead?”

Kate laid her backpack on the table. Michelle pulled a notebook from a nearby shelf.

“Ah, fuck, you’re gonna make me do stepwork, aren’t you?” Ian knew the answer, knew he’d have no good excuses left. 

Michelle just smiled, and Kate snagged the last two cookies off the plate, offering one to Ian. He took it, and accepted his fate.

* * *

_(February 13th 10:00 pm -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

Mickey lay on his back on the narrow bunk, head resting on his crossed arms behind him. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking about his life, how different it was from anything he’d ever imagined. Even now, he still felt- not safe, not really, but like he _existed_ , like he mattered to someone. Maybe multiple someones. But he had the feeling that the longer he was in the big beige box, the more he would fade from the outside world, from the memories of those in the real world, until he was just a name and a vague recollection. _‘Mickey? Oh yeah, I used to know him. Wonder what happened?’_

He didn’t have his notebook or step working guide; he was already bored enough to wish he could write and be productive. Even being bored at the house was better than this, he could always call someone, sketch, text Gallagher, play video games, clean something. In here, he had four walls, and one book that he was trying not to finish until the morning. No paper, nothing to write or draw with, unless he wanted to use his own shit. All he had was his memories and his imagination to keep him from going stir-crazy.

Lately, all his memories were about Ian. The memory of getting himself off to thoughts of Ian’s praises had stuck with Mickey- specifically the massive emptiness of lying in his bed alone, unable to summon up the fantasy any longer. Then kissing him again, on New Year’s, all the guilt he still carried, feeling for the first time like his sponsor didn’t have his back 100%, then hitting Ian, and the subsequent kiss. All the subsequent kisses. Even lying in bed with him the night of the police raid was one of the best nights of his life, despite the outcome. It confused him, that all his feelings were so conflicted, like emotional whiplash whenever Ian was involved, yet he had a deep certainty that Ian was _it_ for him.  
  


If Mickey knew anything, he knew he cared for the man. He’d developed affection for the boy all those years ago, had wanted to protect him, watch over him, just fucking be near him. It had started against his will, this _caring_ shit. He’d wanted a quick bang, and gotten a bit more than that. 

Had he fallen in love with Gallagher’s dick first? Sure, it was a _really_ epic cock, and the guy knew how to use it. But soon, the person it was attached to had wormed his way into Mickey’s cold little heart, the one he used to pretend not to have. 

He rubbed his eyes, not even vaguely tired. The lights in Protective Custody were kept on 24/7, as a safety measure, but it was really fucking with his sleep/wake cycle. The random CO checks didn’t help either: he didn’t feel like he could jerk off or fall into a restful sleep without one of the assholes popping their face up to his door’s window. He expected that at a certain point he’d get desperate or tired enough not to care, but he wasn’t there, not unless he kept thinking about Ian’s perfect cock. 

He shut down the thought-train and tried to meditate, focusing on his breathing. _It was just breathing, right? He’d been breathing his whole life, how hard could it be?_

* * *

_(February 14th 3:00 pm -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

“ **HELLO, THIS IS A PREPAID PHONE CALL FROM** Mickey, asswipe **AN INMATE AT A CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. TO ACCEPT THE CALL, PLEASE PRESS ZERO.** ”

There was a pause as Ian hit the button.

“ **THANK YOU FOR YOUR PAYMENT**. **YOU WILL HAVE UP TO 10 MINUTES OF CALL TIME.** **ALL CALLS ARE SUBJECT TO RECORDING AND MONITORING.** ”

“Aye, you there?”

“Mickey, hi, I’m here. Was waiting for your call.” Ian tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice; he’d been waiting around practically all day, just staring pathetically at his phone and willing it to ring.

“Sorry bout that, the 23 hour lock down thing means they let us out at crazy times. I get an hour to call you, shower, grab my SadMeal, and a new book.”

“SadMeal?”

“Heh, the food in here is so bad, it's like the opposite of a HappyMeal, ya know?”

“Oh, ok, yeah.”

“So how’s your day?”

“My day? Mick, it’s Valentine’s Day and my- my boyfriend,” he said the word low, like someone in his house was listening or would give a crap, “is in jail. For nothing.” He paused. “It _is_ nothing, right?”

“Are you really asking if I’m clean or not right now? Jeeeesus, Ian. I get tested every week, same as you.”

“God, yeah, yes, I know that. I’m just so paranoid that someone, like, slipped you a poppy seed bagel and they’ll try to keep you in jail forever.”

“Not gonna happen, firecrotch. Been livin like a goddamn- I dunno, a monk? A monk who kisses hot guys and jerks off a lot?”

“Oh really?” Ian’s voice was lighter, interested now in a new way.

“This really what you wanna talk about today?”

“Why not? Valentine’s Day, a little sexy talk wouldn’t hurt.”

Mickey sighed heavily, making Ian worry _why_ he was stalling, unwilling to talk about this topic now.

“What?”

“Well, aside from the fact that I don’t want our phone sex to be recorded and played back for the COs to laugh at, is it- I dunno, is it good for you to hear about how much I want your cock in my ass?”

Ian hmmed, considering, then decided to push the envelope, just a little.

“Mickey, it’s my first Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend. I can’t see him, or touch him. All I get is 10 minutes on the phone. Fuckin indulge me.”

“You mean none of your geriatric boyfriends in the past gave you a nice commercialized box of chocolates in hopes you’d put out?” Mickey was teasing him, playing along.

“Not really. They always had to spend it with their wives or girlfriends. Plus, I always put out. I think Kash gave me a flower, once, from a bouquet he bought for Linda.”

There was a long pause. When Mickey did speak, his voice was tight, rough with old anger.

“Sometimes, it makes me so mad that pedo Kash was your first relationship. I think about it, and I think, why him? Why not me? Why did a fucking predator see who you were before I did?”

“Yeah, I think about shit like that too, like why it took a tire iron to make you take me seriously.”

“Hey, now. I- I noticed you, before that. I think I just didn’t let myself- you know, _see_ you.”

“Really?” Ian hated the hopeful note in his voice, that part of him that longed to rewrite his narrative of being ignored, the middle child no one ever saw. 

“Fuckin’ 6 foot tall ginger in 10th grade? Everyone saw you.”

“Didn’t feel like it. Felt like I was invisible. Or that I was a freak.”

“I mean… you kind of are.”

“What the fuck, Mickey? What does that mean?”

“Dude, relax, I’m teasing you about your massive dick, that’s all. What did you think- that I think _that_ about you?”  
“Maybe. I- I guess not.”

“Your brain is a jerk, you know that?”

“I really do.” He hated his brain, most days. The mental illness, the PTSD, the addiction. All of it.

“ **YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE REMAINING**.”

“Shit. I don’t hate your brain, ok? I think I like it how it is, all janky and twisted. Fits me. Like your fucking perfect cock does.”

“Aww, Mick-”

“- **THANK YOU FOR USING THE GLOBAL TELELINK AUTOMATED CORRECTIONAL CALLING SYSTEMS. HAVE A NICE DAY**.”

“Fucking hate that thing!” Ian barely resisted the urge to slam his phone down or throw it across the room. 

* * *

_(February 14th 8:00 pm -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

“Hey Milkovich, you there?”

The CO had rapped his baton on the shatterproof glass of Mickey’s cell door, interrupting his reading. He had gotten into Stephen King in a big way, starting with _Misery_ , and then speeding through _The Long Walk_ in a single night, unable to put the thin paperback down, and now was deep into _Needful Things_. The idea of a store where everyone’s secret dream was for sale, only with a terrible twist that would end up destroying them felt very close to his experience in active addiction. Plus, rumor was King had years of clean time in the fellowship.

“Whaddya want?” Mickey didn’t even glance up, too engrossed.

“Got a message for you.”

_A message? Maybe Gallagher had sent him, what, a postcard? A letter?_

He put his book down carefully and approached the thick cell door. 

“K, give it here.”

“Not that kind of message,” the CO hissed.

_Oh shit._

A package of paper towels wrapped around _something_ was shoved through the access hatch. As soon as the hatch opened, Mickey could smell whatever it was, pungent and foul.

“Terry sends his regards, says if you like shit-packing so much, this should make you feel right at home.”

Mickey breathed lightly through his mouth, trying not to smell, even as he could feel and taste the rotten scent of human crap coating his lungs.

The CO tapped on the glass one last time, grinned evilly, and walked away. 

It took him the better part of an hour and all his toilet paper to shove the mass down his crapper without clogging it up. He had to be careful in the disposal process; it would be just like Terry to bury a needle or razor blade in the waste, waiting to slice and infect him. The scent though, that lingered all night.

_That’s some father of the year shit, right there._

* * *

_(February 15th 7:00 am -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

“ **HELLO, THIS IS A PREPAID PHONE CALL FROM** your fucking boyfriend **AN INMATE AT A CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. TO ACCEPT THE CALL, PLEASE PRESS ZERO.** ”

“ **THANK YOU FOR YOUR PAYMENT**. **YOU WILL HAVE UP TO 10 MINUTES OF CALL TIME.** **ALL CALLS ARE SUBJECT TO RECORDING AND MONITORING.** ”

“Hey, you’re up early.” Ian rubbed his eyes, pulling his pillow over his head to block Liam and Carl from listening in. He’d been awake for a few minutes, just staring at his ceiling. He was _not_ moping. 

“Yeah, they let me out of the cage before lunch, for once. Just in time for tepid oatmeal instead of the usual cold sludge.”

“Tepid, eh. Fancy. You been reading?” He flipped over, face and belly down on the mattress, phone pressed to his ear.

“Fuck you, nothing else to do for 23 hours a day.”

“I thought you were getting yourself off to thoughts of, and I quote, my _perfect_ cock?”

“Ian, I am an old man now. My refractory period exists. Particularly when one tall ginger isn’t here to help.”

“Oh, you need help now? You must be getting positively ancient. Geriatric, even.” Ian buried his face in his mattress as he snickered.

“I know that’s what gets you off, Gallagher. Grey pubes and little blue pills, just admit it now.” He could hear the smile in Mickey’s voice.

“Not sure what you heard, but what gets me off these days is your ass.”

“No shit?”

“Why is that such a surprise?”  
“You know why, Gallagher.”

“Because you never let anyone else near it? I feel so honored.” Ian’s voice was teasing, playful, if a bit muffled.

“Fuck your honor.”

“Better not say _that_ in court. Judge might take you up on it, if he gets a look at you from behind in a jumpsuit. Rworw.” 

“Was that a _growl_? Was that your sexy growl noise? That was terrible, Gallagher. I’m fuckin embarrassed for you.”

“Listen, you. Turn around and hold the phone to your ass so I can send it a message.”

“I am not fucking doing that gay shit.”

“Fine, spoilsport.” Ian waited.

“What were you gonna ~~tell it~~ \- tell me?”

“You really wanna know?”

Mickey didn’t reply, and Ian thought maybe he’d pushed the teasing too far, asked too much of Mickey. 

Then he heard the quiet intake of breath and the reply, so soft he nearly missed it. “Yeah. I _do_ wanna know.”

Ian’s heart pounded, he felt his blood rushing and fizzing in his veins; the affection he felt for this man- he’d never experienced anything like it. It wasn’t just lust, or even chemistry. Mickey was his favorite person, they understood each other, and it was- it was precious to him. That was the only way he could think to explain it.

“I would love to fondle your ass at length, and with my mouth for as long as you let me. Like hours, or decades, maybe.” He pressed his hips down, rutting his cock against the mattress just slightly, letting his body’s needs be recognized, without pushing himself to the point of urgency.

“ **YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE REMAINING**.”

“Mother fucking piece of shit system!” Ian’s curse broke the mood as effectively as the automated system had.

“Aye, it’s working out so good so far.” Mickey was trying to appease him, not let him be too sad, Ian knew.

“Getting kinda sick of it.”

“Yeah, I lied. I hate it too,” Mickey admitted. That made Ian feel better, that he wasn’t the only one completely over these calls.

“ **THANK YOU FOR USING THE GLOBAL TELELINK AUTOMATED CORRECTIONAL CALLING SYSTEMS. HAVE A NICE DAY**.”

Ian hit the button to disconnect the call, and wished that just one time, he’d get to say goodbye. 

* * *

_(February 16th 11:00 am -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

_[Drug Court is in session.]_

“Mr. Milkovich. I see your blood toxicology report came back negative.”

Mickey stared dumbly at the judge, not sure if he was supposed to talk.

The judge looked at Emily, who seemed to know what to say. “Yes, your honor. He has had nearly nine months of continuous clean time, with clean urine drug screenings at my office. He attends regular 12-step meetings, has a sponsor, and works steps, in addition to attending all mandatory counseling sessions.”

“Then why, pray tell, Mr. Milkovich, are you still residing in a home with a known drug dealer?”

Emily nudged him, so he guessed it was finally his turn to speak.

“Uh, he’s my brother.”

“I see. Is there anyone else here who wishes to speak, either in favor or against Mr. Milkovich’s return to society?”

“I would, your honor.”

Mickey’s head swung back to the cheap seats, mostly filled with other addicts waiting their turn before the judge. AJ stood there. 

“And who are you, in respect to Mr. Milkovich?”

“I’m a friend. We participate in recovery meetings together.”

“I know enough about you people to understand that friend likely means more. Please, continue.”

“Just here to say Mickey’s doin the work. The hard work. When we had a mutual friend pass away, he helped me out, helped me keep busy. He takes suggestions, and does the right thing, even when it’s hard.”

“Glowing praise indeed. Anyone else?” Mickey could hear AJ sitting down, could hardly believe that he’d come, had _spoken_ for him. “Very well, Ms. Gonzalez, I understand the brother is facing incarceration of his own, and is unlikely to return to the home?”

“That’s correct, your honor.”

_Iggy was? Fucking news to Mickey._

“Fine, fine. I see no reason for Mr. Milkovich to remain in custody at this time. Mr Milkovich, please continue the good work. Case dismissed.” The judge banged his gavel, and Emily started to gather her folders.

“Wait, that’s it?” Mickey asked Emily in a hoarse whisper.

She smiled at him, brown eyes twinkling. 

“And I get to go home? I don’t gotta stay here?”

Emily stopped what she was doing and put a hand on his arm. “Mickey, did you think I’d leave you in here, if I could help it?”

She guided him gently out of the courtroom, to the processing station. 

“Look, they have to give you all your belongings back and fill out some paperwork, I’ll wait out front.”

Mickey just nodded, still in a daze. A large part of his brain had been absolutely certain he’d be in prison, indefinitely, or even permanently. To be freed, and told he was doing _good work_ was the last possibility that he’d considered. 

* * *

_(February 16th 12:00 pm -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

When Mickey walked out the door of the courtroom in the dazzling but bitterly cold afternoon, he was a little surprised to see Mandy waiting with Emily. He [ held his face up to the sun ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EcM93GZUEAAu0wg?format=jpg&name=small), closing his eyes and just enjoying a world that didn’t smell like shit and fear. He opened his eyes, and his surprise at seeing Mandy dissipated, overshadowed by relief when he saw Ian’s wan but joyful face. 

Bypassing Mandy entirely, he walked right over to Ian, looking him up and down, beaming with a little laugh. Ian did likewise, looking like he was breathing freely for the first time in days even though Mickey had been the one locked up, “[ C’mere ](https://tenor.com/view/come-here-flirt-seduce-in-love-love-gif-15821823).”

Mickey grabbed him in a hug, “Hey, sorry I missed Valentine’s,” he whispered into Ian’s chest. Eventually, they pulled apart, Ian’s eyes bright but fierce.

Rather than acknowledging Mandy, he just posed a question to her, “Got a smoke?” She smacked him in the shoulder before pulling him into her own quick hug before releasing him and handing him a cigarette. 

He lit it with a grin, still watching Ian, drinking in the sight of him like a necessary substance. “Missed ya.”

Ian promptly burst into tears. Mandy and Mickey came up on each side of him, in a weird group hug. Emily took the opportunity to make an exit, reminding Mickey about their upcoming appointment. He didn’t know what to say, how to thank her, and he was more focused on Gallagher’s very-public tears, so he just gave her a little wave, hoping she understood. 

“Remember the first time you came home from Juvie?” Mandy reminisced, rubbing Ian’s back in small circles, as he let his anxiety and stress pour out.

“Man, do I ever.” Mickey thought back. “It was fucking hot and humid, and I was so glad to be out of that shit hole. Was shocked as hell when you both turned up, though.”

“Can we- can we go somewhere else, home, maybe?” Ian’s voice wavered, and Mickey would have done pretty much anything he asked, in that moment.

“Sure, sure. I mean, we might have to call an Uber, but-” Mandy had pulled away from the two men and taken out her phone, trying to pull up the app. 

“Nah, you’re good,” a deep voice spoke up from behind the trio, surprising Mickey.

AJ stood there in front of his SUV, obviously double parked in front of a courthouse, just killing time, like he had every right to be there.

“Hey, man. Can we get uh- a ride?” _This was way outside of a sponsor’s job description, Mickey knew. This was friend-zone shit._

“Course you can. Seat belts are mandatory though.”

“Not gonna let that go, are you?” Mickey quipped.

“Nope. And you might have to fight someone for the front seat.” The eye crinkles let Mickey know AJ was more than happy to see him, that AJ was having some genuine _feelings_ about the whole thing. 

_Heck, Mickey was too._

When he opened the second row door, a whirling ball of fur and tongue exploded onto him, knocking him back a step as Tina tried her utmost to lick him to death and leap into his arms. 

“Awww, Daddy missed you too, Teens.”

Mandy and Ian exchanged a look.

“ _Daddy_?!”

* * *

_(February 16th 10:00 pm -_ **_Ian_ ** _)_

“So you don’t think it’s weird that I was crying in front of a courthouse?” Ian was lying in his own bed, Fiona seated next to him. 

He’d done the welcome home thing with Mickey, Mandy, Tina and AJ but he was feeling pretty drained. He knew from experience that if he pushed through, didn’t listen to his body, the bipolar would take advantage. 

“Honestly,” Fiona replied, “I think the weird part is that you were crying in Mickey Milkovich’s arms. The location was, like, the least weird part. You needed to get it out, I guess.”

“I know you don’t get it, Fi. It’s ok.” He patted her leg awkwardly. “He was the first person in the world who seemed to actually like me for me, not because of what I could do or because we were related. I mean, at first he didn’t, but then we spent time together and it was just- like having a best friend.”

“Thought Lip was your best friend?”

“Yeah, he was, when we were kids. But people change. And of course I still love him, he’s my brother. But with Mickey, it’s like every time we see each other, there’s this thing, this string-theory, essential, eternal connection.”

“Ok, kid, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin about, but I love you and I’m glad you're happy. Get some rest, k?”

“Ok. Night, Fi.”

“Night, sweetface.”

* * *

_(February 17th 7:00 pm -_ **_Mickey_ ** _)_

The next night, AJ picked Mickey up for the meeting, just as he had done dozens of times before. Tonight felt different somehow. Like they weren’t just sponsor-sponsee, they could have been friends, hanging out. Mandy had even volunteered to watch Tina during the meeting, once they had pried the dog away from Mickey’s feet where she seemed to have decided to take up permanent residence.

“Hey man, how’s it being home?”AJ inquired as he got into the SUV.

“S’ fine. Wasn’t like I was locked up for a decade, it was less than a week.”

“I know, cause I counted all the phone calls I didn’t get.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” It hadn’t really crossed Mickey’s mind to use his phone time to call AJ; his whole attention had been fixated on Gallagher. Maybe this was what Michelle and AJ had been afraid of, his forgetting recovery in favor of Ian.

“It’s fine, Mickey. Really. Ian kept me updated, mostly.”

“Not Michelle?” Mickey arched an eyebrow, making sure to keep his tone light.

“Nah, we try not to discuss you guys too much anymore. Feels too much like gossiping.”

“Hey, can I ask you a dumb question?”

“Mickey, you know there are no-”

“-No stupid questions, yeah, I know that, but still. Can I?”

“Shoot.”

“Why’d you come to court and speak for me?”

AJ gave him the side eye that meant he thought Mickey was asking questions he already knew the answers to.

“And I don’t already know! That’s why I’m fucking asking!”

“Alright, ok. First of all, you’re an addict in recovery, and you needed help I could offer.”

“Yeah, but the courtroom was literally full of junkies in need of help.” Mickey countered.

“But they’re all helpless, still in the grips of the disease, and you’re not.”

“So we don’t help the helpless?”

“What do you think would happen, if I went to court and advocated for every junkie who walked in the door?”

“Dunno, you’d have less free time?”

“At first, a judge would buy my bullshit, and release the junkies. And some of them would go out and use and die. Then, the judges would start to realize I was full of shit, and I’d lose my credibility and not be able to help _anyone_.”

“Oh. Huh, I didn’t think of that.”

“This is 12th step stuff, makes sense you haven’t really looked at it yet. But I have a 12th step in my life, so I have some experience in this area.”

“That’s the only reason? Cause I’m in recovery and needed help?”

“Stop fishin’, Mickey. I did it cause I believe in you, and because we’re friends.”

“Knew you were fuckin soft.”

“Takes one to know one, kid. Besides, I didn’t want to have to watch your giant human CareBear go to pieces if you stayed in the joint any extra.”

“He took it hard, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you love and care about someone. Their well-being becomes essential to your own.”

“You think- you think this thing Ian and I have- is love?”

AJ released a weary sigh. “Yeah, Mickey, I do. Not sure why you doubt it, but that’s your prerogative. From my point of view, you and Ian are in love. You’re, like, the shining fucking epitome of love. True love. Like, in chick flicks and Hallmark channel movies.”

“I knew you were a secret squishy! Is the Hallmark Channel your favorite? Did you buy DVD versions of all the Christmas Prince movies?”

“You do know it says more about your viewing than mine that you know a series on the Hallmark Channel?”

“Ey, fuck you, Mandy lives for that shit.”

“Sure, Micky, keep telling yourself that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I had a lot more written about Ian's 4th step and then took it out, because I am trying not to make this story ALL recovery. Feel free to ask if you have specific questions about the step or process- the biggest takeaway is that there's a reason that we don't think about or do the fourth step until we're at the fourth step and have done the past three. It's about reflection and reassessment, looking for patterns in our behavior. Hard to see the patterns while we're still enmeshed in them.  
> 2\. Playing fast and loose with the rules of Drug Court here, this is a fictionalization of a real program, and should not be relied on as literal truth IRL. Don't think the cops can actually take you in for being in a house with a stash, and even if they did, it wouldn't be to a true prison, more like jail. (Fun fact: Jail and Prison are not synonymous! Jail is where you go while waiting for bail or sentencing, prison is where you to go serve out a sentence.)  
> 3\. Sunrise meetings are awesome, but I am never up that early unless I'm on my way to work.  
> 4\. Protective custody IS a thing, and provided there isn't an overcrowding issue, can be accessed at any time for a variety of reasons.  
> 5\. Calls from jail and prison come up as spam in Caller ID. Very annoying.  
> 6\. Amends are about changing behavior, and making restitution, more so than "saying sorry." They can be literal (pay back the money you stole) or figurative (become a contributing member of society.)  
> 7\. I hope my formatting correctly conveyed that in the middle of the welcome automated voice, you hear the person in jail or prison identify themselves. Usually it's prerecorded just once, but I loved the idea of Mickey saying all these ridiculous things.  
> 8\. Online pre payment is easy.  
> 9\. Stole a LOT of quotes for this chapter from canon conversations between other characters.  
> 10\. "Feared up" is a common idiom in recovery, means filled with fear.  
> 11\. Meditation is another recovery thing. Prayer is considered speaking to a higher power, but meditation is listening for guidance from a higher power. It sounds a little woo-woo, but through daily practice, utterly divorced from religious context, many people find it helpful or refreshing.  
> 12\. I saw someone on Twitter go OFF on how they hate the 'firecrotch' nickname, and if you're reading, I'm sorry.  
> 13\. Stephen King, in recovery? More likely than you might think!  
> 14\. Why is Emily, Mickey's counselor acting like a lawyer? Because I said so, and I love her.


	25. IP#11 Sponsorship (Split perspective) (March/April)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Mickey has a bad few days. Carl makes a late night delivery. More uncomfortable growth.  
> \---  
> [Sea Blue - Bloxx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA3cKhbbWmA)  
> [The Killer's - My Own Soul's Warning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQqf5Ysx0jI)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slower posting schedule because the chapter lengths have doubled. I feel like around Ch 11 I finally found my sweet spot and now I'm writing a lot MORE.  
> \---  
> If you catch a mistake, let me know so I can fix it.  
> Recovery questions? Ask away!  
> I love comments- seriously, I need the dopamine.  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> [IP #11 Sponsorship](https://www.na.org/admin/include/spaw2/uploads/pdf/litfiles/us_english/IP/EN3111.pdf)  
> “We may worry that we are a burden to our sponsors and hesitate to contact them, or we may believe our sponsors will want something in return from us. But the truth is our sponsors benefit as much as we do from the relationship. In our program, we believe that we can only keep what we have by giving it away; by using our sponsors, we are actually helping them to stay clean and recover."

**_(Thursday - Ian)_ **

It started at the end of March, with a sneeze. 

Mickey had his[ ridiculously long ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c4c3ed31c4bf563d50eefaa69fdfa1fb/tumblr_oy4pa7FHGT1vte7jro1_400.gif) green scarf wrapped around his neck three times, the ends dangling nearly to his waist, as well as an old army jacket on. The wet wind was whipping through the parking lot where he stood, trying to light a cigarette with Ian before a meeting, when he sneezed, three times in quick succession. Tina, huddled in front of him in an incongruous [ yellow ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/fe/5e/91/fe5e911d0e7d660b04aa7201f29375f4--raincoat-your-pet.jpg) doggie rain jacket, startled at the sound, staring up at him in concern.

Ian watched him, a look of affectionate amusement on his face. “You ok there?”

“Fuckin fantastic.” He lifted his hand, about to wipe his nose on his sleeve, reconsidered, inhaling violently then spitting the result on the asphalt. 

By the end of the meeting, fierce red patches burned on his cheeks and Ian could feel the heat radiating off of him, though Mickey claimed he felt fine. 

Ian got him and Tina home, un-velcroed her rain jacket, then slowly unwrapped the scarf from Mickey’s neck right there in the hallway. He took the time to gently pull off the fingerless gloves from each tattooed knuckle, held the back of Mickey’s coat so he could slip out of it, and even bent before him to unlace his boots. He knew Mickey really felt ill because he didn’t make even a half-assed joke, instead his eyes were mostly closed and he was swaying on his feet. Ian helped him stay upright as he toed off the boots, then herded him in his socks to the familiar bedroom. 

“You gotta take off your pants, at least, man,” Ian told him, feeling awkward at having to tell Mickey this, at the entirely unsexy stripshow.

Mickey started to respond with snark, but it turned into a nasty sounding cough that left him looking green around the gills. 

“Just undo the belt and I’ll help you step out of them.” Mickey nodded without looking at him, fingers going to his belt buckle, slowly unfastening it. Ian carefully slid the jeans down to the floor, keeping his shoulder against Mickey so he wouldn’t fall over. Lifting the first foot out of the pants leg went fine, but the left foot was another story, and Mickey ended up halfway falling on the edge of the bed in his boxers and sweater.

Tina leapt up and curled at the end of the bed in her customary spot. Ian assessed him, trying to see what else needed doing before he could let Mickey rest.

“Raise your hands for me, Mick.” Mickey raised them, but only lifted his hands about as far as his ears, any further exertion beyond him. Ian peeled the cable-knit sweater up, careful to not let it snag on his chin, just as he’d once undressed Debbie, Carl, and Liam, even Lip when he was particularly drunk.

Mickey sat, attention directed inwards, in just a tee shirt and boxers, until Ian maneuvered him down, resting his head on the pillow and pulling the blanket up over his shoulder.

He turned, picking up the discarded clothing, looking for somewhere to put it, finally seeing a white plastic laundry basket kicked halfway into the closet. In the dim light, he couldn’t tell if it was full of clean or dirty clothes, but that didn’t seem to be crucial at the moment. Then he paused, trying to figure out the next right move. 

_Mickey probably shouldn’t be alone tonight, as bad as he looked._

He headed out the door, thinking of all the things he needed, tylenol, cough medicine, gatorade, a thermometer. Did the Milkovich’s have any of that stuff?

“Hey, you leavin?” Mickey’s voice surprised him, raspy and low.

“Just getting you some water and stuff; I’ll be right back, don’t worry,” Ian promised.

He took the opportunity to text Fiona while he stood in the empty kitchen.

 **(Ian)** **(10:10 PM):** hey fi

 **(Fiona) (10:11 PM):** Whats wrong?

 **(Ian)** **(10:11 PM):** nothing wrong 👌👌👌👌

 **(Ian)** **(10:12 PM):** mickey sick so im staying herer tonight 

**(Fiona) (10:13 PM):** What kind of sick- you don’t need a cold

 **(Ian)** **(10:14 PM):** not swappppping spit prolly flu

 **(Fiona) (10:14 PM):** Got your meds?

 **(Ian)** **(10:15 PM):** yah 💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊

 **(Fiona) (10:16 PM):** ok talk tomorrow. Be safe.

 **(Ian)** **(10:16 PM):** loveu

With that out of the way, he filled a clean mug with cool water from the tap, and peeked into the fridge. There were more staples than he’d expected- really, his imagination had filled the fridge with beer and expired condiments, but there was a half full carton of eggs, some tupperware full of leftovers, and a few kinds of deli meat.

He looked into Mandy’s open bedroom door, but she wasn’t there and her bureau was overflowing with makeup, old water bottles, and a dead plant. 

With no other options, he pulled out his phone again.

 **(Ian)** **(10:21 PM):** 🙏 actually cn u help 🙏

 **(Fiona) (10:21 PM):** what can I do?

The reply was instantaneous: the offer of assistance automatic.

 **(Ian)** **(10:22 PM):** cold med thermormerter tylenol???

 **(Ian)** **(10:22 PM):** nd any thng elseu think he MIGHT neeed?

 **(Fiona) (10:23 PM):** Carl’s up, I’ll send him over in a little bit. 

**(Ian)** **(10:23 PM):** THANK YOU 🙌🙌🙌🙌

Carl showed up 20 minutes later, hammering on the door until Ian swung it open with a scowl. 

“He’s finally asleep, or he was until you started banging!”

“[ See if I ever deliver shit for _you_ again at night! ](https://media.tenor.com/images/3b53ddca8210a206ece7b43d5a11a641/tenor.gif)”

Ian softened, Carl really had done him a huge favor.

“Sorry, sorry. He’s really hot and I’m just worried- I do appreciate you bringing this stuff over.”

“No problem. Mandy home?” Carl handed him a full paper grocery bag, then leaned forward, trying to peer into the unlit living room.

That earned him a dirty look, “No, Carl, Mandy isn’t home, and if she was, she’d just tell you fuck off.”

“Yeah, but she’d look super hot when she said it.”

“Isn’t she like, a decade older than you?”

Ian remembered that had never stopped _him_ before, but Carl was different, somehow. Less worldly, like he’d sold less of himself, Ian thought.

“So?” Carl shrugged, obviously not seeing any issue.

“You’re not hitting on Mandy Milkovich, ok? End of discussion.”

“But aren’t you dating Mickey?”

“I- yeah, but that’s different.”

_It’s different because we’re not just dating. It’s not messing around, or a hookup, which is all you want from Mandy._

“Whatever, man. You got your meds?”

“Yes, Carl, I have my meds with me.” 

_When would they stop checking on him? Would they ever?_

He had started keeping a small bottle with a few doses in Mickey’s dresser drawer, tucked under his socks.

“You want me to tell Fiona anything?”

“Just tell her I’m ok, please?”

“Sure thing.” Carl slouched off into the icy night, bare hands shoved into his pockets.

Ian shut the door carefully, and brought the paper bag into the kitchen to see what Fiona had sent. In addition to the tylenol pills and thermometer, she’d included a can of chicken soup, a half empty bag of cough drops, a few ratty tea bags, and a wizened-looking orange. Or maybe it had been a grapefruit, once, before it had been consigned to the depths of the Gallagher fridge to dry out and dessicate in the cold. 

He microwaved a cup of water with one of the tea bags in it, wishing he had honey, but settled for a spoonful of sugar. Then, he thought better of the decision, and added two more heaping teaspoons of sugar to the hot drink. Shaking a few of the pills into his hand, he carried them carefully into the bedroom, sitting lightly beside Mickey. Tina’s eyes watched his every motion, but she didn’t move away from Mickey’s feet.

“Hey, Mickey?” Ian hoped the whisper would be enough, that he wouldn’t have to resort to waking him with a nudge or a shake, but all the response he got was a muffled whimper and snuffling noise. He tried again, “Mickey, I need you to wake up, just for a minute, please?”

That got a response, somehow. The thick lashes fluttered and opened slowly, until he was gazing into Mickey’s eyes. Ian thought back, to the first time he noticed Mickey’s eyes, the day he’d come over for Kash’s gun. When Mickey had straddled him, threatening him with the lead pipe, he remembered thinking, ‘ _I never noticed- his eyes are so_ [ **_blue_ ** ](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fdata.whicdn.com%2Fimages%2F167902301%2Foriginal.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fweheartit.com%2Fentry%2F167902301&tbnid=DpKArwHJ5TRrwM&vet=12ahUKEwj69MDvt8vqAhUnZN8KHShcAXYQMygDegUIARC8AQ..i&docid=UZ8tGXj4gTqERM&w=960&h=960&q=noel%20fisher%20blue%20eyes&ved=2ahUKEwj69MDvt8vqAhUnZN8KHShcAXYQMygDegUIARC8AQ).’

He helped Mickey sit up, wrapping a hand to cup the back of his head and nape, as he took a sip of the tea. His eyes slid closed again, alarming Ian.

“Mick? Hey, you just need to take these pills and I’ll let you rest, ok?”

Mickey put out a damp palm and Ian dropped the three tylenol into it. 

Before he could offer him the mug of tea again, Mickey had dry swallowed the pills in one gulp. 

_Benefits of being a drug addict, I guess._

Mickey rolled over, facing the wall, leaving Ian perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with the mug, unsure what to do next.

After a moment, Mickey turned, just his head, and peered up at him drowsily. “Lie the fuck down with me, Gallagher. No cops this time, promise.”

With a small smile, Ian kicked off his own shoes and laid carefully behind Mickey, pressing his chest to Mickey’s back, feeling the heat baking off of him in waves. Hesitantly, he laid one arm over Mickey’s waist, unsure if it was safe, or smart, or whatever. Mickey huffed out a breath of annoyance, and grabbed his forearm, pulling it from his waist until Ian’s arm was running up the center of Mickey’s chest, their hands clasped under Mickey’s chin. 

* * *

**_(Friday - Ian)_ **

In the morning, Mickey was no better. He was now alternating between desperate heat, the sweat running down his forehead, and bitter chills, huddling under the blankets when they hit. Ian was getting seriously worried. 

All through the day it got worse, until Mickey was barely conscious, his breathing gasping and thick. Ian had been texting with Michelle, Fiona, and even AJ on Mickey’s phone. Everyone said he needed to take Mickey to the hospital, but he kept waiting, looking for signs that the fever was breaking, ( _even though he hadn’t been able to get Mickey to take any tylenol since the night before_.)

Mandy finally got home around 3pm, took one look at Mickey and started calling around to find someone with a car who could take them to the ER.

Mickey woke up, a little, as Ian carefully dressed him.

“Heyyy, Gallagher. Wass- wassup?”

“You’re sick, you need help. I gotta take you to a hospital, Mick.”

Mickey twisted away from him, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

“Fuck you. Don’t need a-” he broke into harsh, bronchial, heaving coughs. 

“Yeah, you do. Don’t worry. We got you, I got you. It’s ok.”

Mickey was out again, his lips a worrying shade of pale blue as Ian got jeans and a sweatshirt on him, and carried him in a fireman’s lift into the truck Mandy had secured from Kevin Ball outside.

* * *

( **_Tuesday_ ** \- **_Mickey_ **)

He woke up suddenly, hearing a beeping nearby, but he didn’t open his eyes. The light was _wrong_ , too bright for his well-curtained bedroom, or even for the living room. Conclusion? He wasn’t at home. He could hear footsteps, somewhere nearby, and clothing shifting. The air smelled heavily of cleaning products, aseptic. He scrunched his nose and cracked open one eye, only to see Gallagher staring at his face. _Not back in jail, then._

“What’s up, [ Bedtime Bear ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/62/8e/2c/628e2c0d0830dbbed9163b3b65e28910.gif)? You been watching me?” His voice came out all scratchy and thin, and he coughed, unsure why he was so short of breath. Gallagher just waited until the coughing fit passed, and handed him a plastic cup of water to sip from a wheeling tray table nearby. Mickey had seen those before, was he in a hospital?

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. It’s good- good to see you, Mickey.”

“Been here the whole time, whadya mean?”

“You were, and you kind of weren’t. Your fever got really high, and you were sayin stuff, like you thought I was someone else, for a while.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything, just sipped more water, wondering and considering.

A young male nurse came in, saving him the effort of devising a response, and confirming that he was in some kind of health care facility. 

“Mr. Milkovich! Good of you to finally join us; we were about to ask your boyfriend to pull a Sleeping Beauty on you, see if that woke you up!”

Mickey blinked at the man, his temper rising. “[ I don’t know what the fuck that ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/75cde20997734cefbdcb525eccfe9b84/tenor.gif?itemid=6197307)-” he broke off in a harsh, rattling cough.

“Easy does it, your lungs will need some time to recover.”

Mickey looked at Ian, hoping he would explain.

“Oh, ok,” Ian actually seemed to know what his look meant, “so you had a cold, I thought, but it was actually the flu, and then you kind of got pneumonia cause your lungs are all jacked up.”

“Smoking kills, gentlemen,” the nurse admonished. 

Mickey shot him [ the middle finger ](https://media.tenor.com/images/e9f0fc12d27953415db2c92189c59bed/tenor.gif), but the nurse just laughed as he pulled the white sheets off of Mickey’s legs. “Ready to get this catheter out?”

“Cath-” He turned to Ian, “How long have I been here?”

“I’ll be right back to help you.” The nurse stepped out of the room, giving them privacy to talk.

Ian thought, eyes searching the ceiling. “You were probably sick already, but I took you home on Thursday night, and it’s Tuesday now. So, five days? Yeah, you’ve been in here for five days.”

“Did they, did they give me anything?” Mickey’s tone was low and urgent, pitched to reach Ian’s ears.

“Just antibiotics and fluids, I made sure.” Gallagher reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it.

“Oh, shit, if it’s Tuesday that means I missed- fuck, I missed an Emily appointment and at least four meetings, if I get to one tonight. You think they’ll let me out in time?”

Ian looked dubious. “Probably no?”

“Ah, fuck.” He rubbed the back of his head before he balled it up, punching the bed beside his leg. “This is ridiculous. I’m _fine_ , they can just let me go once they get this thing,” he gestured to his crotch, “out. Wait, _how_ do they get it out?”

“With fairy dust and deep breathing, hon!” The cheery male nurse was back, and pulling on blue latex gloves.

“Uh, I think I’ll wait outside for this.” Ian retreated into the hallway as Mickey glared daggers at his back.

* * *

“All finished,” the nurse said breezily as he left the room. Ian stepped back in, tentatively. 

“Well, that fuckin sucked. Why’d you leave, anyway?” Mickey was griping, he knew he was complaining just so he didn’t have to address the whole _lost five days of my life and how am I going to pay this bill and do I really have to quit smoking and-_

“I uh, wanted to give you some space, privacy, you know?

“Sounds fake, but ok. Thought you liked perving over my body.”

“I do! I really do, it just- I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

_That’s what happens when you love and care about someone. Their wellbeing becomes essential to your own._

AJ’s words echoed in his head, the evidence piling up that meant more than words. Words could lie, people could lie, or change their minds, or leave. But actions didn’t lie. Probably.

He sighed, and stretched out his hand to Gallagher. “It’s fine. ‘M I still infectious?”

“Doubt it.” Ian accepted the hand, and sat down beside his sheet-covered legs on the hospital bed.

Mickey reached up his free hand to Ian’s neck, pulling him into a quick kiss. 

“What was that for?” Ian asked, just inches from Mickey’s face, eyes still shut, breathing lightly. 

Mickey patted his cheek softly. “I just felt like kissing my boyfriend.”

“You still wanna go to a meeting tonight?” Ian’s tone was light, curious.

“Eh, right now I kinda want to sleep for another 14 hours or so. Think AJ will murder me if I miss another?”

“Probably not. Being in the hospital’s got to be excused, right?”

“Feels weird though, missing meetings. Like, _missing_ them.”

“I mean, all your friends are there.”

Mickey arched an eyebrow at that.

“Back to just friends, again? Thought we established you’re my boyfriend. Unless you met someone while I was sleeping, you been cruisin the hallways looking?”

Ian slapped his arm at the teasing.

“Not me, idiot. AJ and, um… who else do you talk to?”

Mickey thought about it. He still didn’t talk to many people, and had yet to share on the floor.

_Openmindedness._

“That hipster guy. Cause he has a dog too, and I had a few questions. And I guess Del, because he never shuts up.”

“So, like I said, your friends are there, and your super hot boyfriend.”

“Sittin in the dark with my friends listening to people bitch and moan, this is what my life’s come to.” He coughed again, and grabbed a tissue, spitting some phlegm into it like an old man.

“Yup. You’re a full-on NA cult member,” Ian teased.

“Well, at least for the next two years and change.”

“And after?” Ian’s voice went suspiciously neutral.

“Dunno. Probably gotta find a job. Maybe my own place? Won’t have as much time.”

“Oh.” Ian’s face was turned away, facing out the screened window of the room overlooking the massive parking lot.

“What?” 

_Why was Gallagher upset?_

Oh, ok, yeah, he saw it now.

“You think I’m gonna leave you behind too? Not a chance, Gallagher. You’re stuck with me.”

“Even when you have your own place and a job and I’m still on drug court for a few more years?” Ian still wasn’t looking at him, was seemingly fascinated by the shitty view, had in fact hunched his shoulders, curling in on himself.

“Ah, sure. We’ll go on dates to meetings, I’ll buy you free cups of shitty coffee and eat all the cookies.” Mickey wasn’t teasing, but he was trying to get his Gallagher back, his mind back in the room, in the present.

“That’s long-term commitment shit, Mick. You being serious right now, you’re not gonna leave me behind?” Ian’s voice, his lack of eye contact, his diminished posture all showed how much he was hoping Mickey was being truthful, fearful he was just bullshitting. 

_Was he serious?_

“Think so. Unless you know any other ginger sex gods who’re into rough, tattoed guys with big mouths.”

Ian finally turned back to look at him, a small [ smirk ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/40/4d/74/404d748d53ee135306a539f843e9af22.jpg) playing on his lips. 

“And asses, don’t forget your ass.”

“Right, right, you know any of them?”

“Nah, you’re shit outta luck. Unless that nurse I was hooking up with comes back, then you’re on your own.”

“I got nowhere else to go, so you hook up with a nurse, you’ll still see my ass, haunting you at every meeting you go to.”

“Gotta stop talkin about your ass, Mickey.”

“Oh? What, you ain’t seen it in days and now you don’t even wanna hear about it?”

“Wanna do more than that.”

Mickey suddenly looked awkward, fidgeting with the hem of the sheet.

“Yeah, about that.” Ian was moving slowly, like his blood was part sludge or ice, and Mickey knew, _he knew_ , that was a precursor to panic. He laid his hand on Ian’s thigh, squeezing lightly, trying to ground him in the present. “S’not bad. I mean, it’s bad for me, but not you. I don’t think.”

“Just spit it out, Mickey, please?”

_Honesty._

“Think I need a dick test.”

“A- a what?”

“Like for STDs and shit. I- fuck, this is hard. Before, you know, when I was using I did some shit, and I didn’t- I wasn’t always careful. Didn’t use condoms. When I fucked guys.”

Incongruously, Ian [ grinned ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/91/4b/cb/914bcb7b8e93e8ea013a97a47d5fee41.jpg) at him, face brightening appreciably. 

“Seriously? _That’s_ your big reveal?” He laughed, wrapping his hand over Mickey’s on his leg, tracing the tattoos with a finger. “Don’t know about you, but they tested me in rehab.”

“Wait, they did? I remembered them taking blood and shit but I didn’t…”

“Yeah, and mine came back a fuckin mess, too. Had to take three kinds of antibiotics.” Suddenly, Gallagher’s face was serious. “I was fuckin lucky that was all I needed. That I didn’t pick up Hep C, or HIV, or some shit.”

Mickey heart painfully clenched in his chest, hearing that Ian could have been infected, that he could have lost him to a stupid _virus_. He clamped down on the thought fiercely, not letting it progress.

“You think they tested me in there?”

“It’s pretty much standard operating procedure. You can ask Emily, I’m sure she’ll know.”

Mickey didn’t reply. He’d been busy beating himself up for _weeks_ after writing in his 4th step that he’d had ‘unsafe sex,’ which wouldn’t have fucking mattered, except he wanted to get fucked by Gallagher, and the idea of being infected, unsafe, _infested-_ he shuddered. 

“You been thinking about it, eh Mick?” Ian’s tone was deeper, and he was staring hopefully at Mickey’s face.

_Willingness._

“Fuck you.” He scowled, then softened, “Course I have.”

“Good. I have _plans_ for you, Mickey Milkovich.”

“Plans?” Mickey echoed, hoping to elicit further details.

“Plans involving my dick, and your ass, and a bed. And your dick, and my mouth, and your mouth...”

“You can really stop now, I get the picture, and if I get hard, it’s gonna hurt right now.”

Ian glanced down, then back up, biting his lip.

“Oh no, you’re not tempting me with that shit.”

“No?”

“No. You can suck me off, or I’ll suck your dick, whatever, whenever you want, ok? _After_ the year’s up.”

Ian sighed, leaning back. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But it’s- it’s a challenge.”

“Damn straight, I’m right. Now let me take a nap, I’m fucking exhausted.”

Ian moved, began to straighten and stand when Mickey reached out to grab his wrist.

“I like that you think I was gonna let you leave,” Mickey told him, as he pulled Gallagher’s arm until they were both laying, pressed together on the narrow hospital bed, Ian’s face tucked into the crook of his neck, warm breath across his throat.

* * *

When Mickey woke up again, Ian had moved off the bed into a chair, and was knocked out, mouth open like a child as he slept. AJ was standing in the doorway, which is probably what had awakened Mickey. 

“We really gotta stop meeting like this, Mickey.”

Still a little sleepy, Mickey grinned.

“Just trying to keep you on your toes. You’d be bored if all you ever did was go to meetings.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t fuckin lie to me. Lie to yourself all you want, but you were drowning in healthy recovery bullshit before I came into your life. Nobody to hang out with, all your little sponsees doing whatever you told em, no one’s life to put your fingers in and fuck around with.” The words were harsh but his tone was playful, taunting but not unkindly. _Friendly-like_.

AJ nodded, once. “You… may actually have a point there.”

Pulling himself up to a sitting position with a wheeze, Mickey motioned for AJ to sit on the end of the hospital bed.

“So, Mickey, are _you_ lying to yourself about anything, these days?”

Mickey’s eyes immediately shot to the lanky redhead sleeping in the chair, and he knew AJ saw it.

“We don’t have to talk about it right this second, but I figured we could keep trying to move forward with your stepwork, if you wanted.”

“That wasn’t a-” he broke off in a deep cough before recovering, “-a question from the guide,” Mickey observed.

“Nope. It’s one of my own. Cause I think lying to yourself is the root of lies to others. Like, I _tell_ myself I’m happy with my life, and then I can get away with not pushing myself in my recovery, in my job, or in my relationships.”

Mickey considered, turning the question over in his mind. There was one thing he’d been burying, refusing to look at or talk about or even admit existed in his brain. He looked back to Ian, making sure he was asleep- a little snore emanated from the back of his throat, confirming he was down for the count. 

_Or faking really well_ , Mickey’s mind supplied unhelpfully. _Would he do that? Pretend to be asleep just so he could hear my secrets?_ He didn’t think so but…

“Gallagher has a really small dick. Like a baby carrot.”

He enunciated it clearly, raising his voice slightly, watching the redhead’s face for any sign of awareness or refutation. Seeing none, he clarified for AJ’s benefit.

“Nah, just makin sure he’s out. Uh, it’s about the whore.” He reached out a hand, and AJ passed him the small plastic water cup to sip from.

“The woman who your father forced to sexually assault you?”

“Her, the Russian bitch.” 

Sip. _Water in, truth out._

“Ok.” AJ just sat there, perched on top of the white sheet, and waited. He didn’t stare at Mickey, or try to make him feel ‘more comfortable.’ He just waited like he had all the time in the world, like Mickey was a priority. Like Mickey’s _problems_ were a priority.

_Wild, man._

He braced himself, and spilled the words out in a rush.“She was knocked up. Said it was me, could have been 20 men, including my dad. Not even sure she kept the brat, coulda had it vacuumed out, I dunno. But it’s like, marginally possible I have a kid out there.” 

Sip. His mouth was dry from spilling the secret.

AJ continued to wait, in case there was more. There was.

“Sometimes I think about tracking her down, finding out. But what I have now, it’s good, right? It’s getting really good. And finding that- a kid, _my_ kid, that could really fuck shit up. I don’t wanna know, but not knowing is bad too. So I don’t think about it, a lot. I mean, like I try really hard not to think about it, ever.” Once again, he glanced helplessly at Ian, at this small good thing he had going, and thought that if he fucked it up, lost him- what would he do? What _could_ he do?

AJ finally looked at his face, and his expression was odd, like a mixture of pity and sadness and also joy. “You want a suggestion?”

“Don’t expect me to do shit with it, but yeah, lay it out.” 

Sip. _Relief_.

“Let’s table it, until the 8th step. I’m not saying you never have to deal with it, you can and should address it. But not yet. Not now. I don’t think you’re ready.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Mickey laid back against the pile of pillows in relief. 

“It’s not a free pass, Mickey. We’re just kicking the can down the road a bit.”

“Yeah, so it’s a FutureMe problem. Off my shoulders for now. I got it.”

“Feel any lighter?”

“Feel fucking hungry. Think they got any jello in this joint?”

“Not your nurse, Mickey.”

He pouted a little, playing it up to make AJ smile.

“But you’re my friend, and friends get friends jello when they’re sick!”

AJ smiled, and shook his head, patting Mickey on the knee. It was the most physical contact they’d ever exchanged, and Mickey knew he needed to start looking at his touch aversion, with Emily, and with his friends. Friend. Friends? If he couldn’t tell them how he felt, he could maybe start showing them, demonstrate his fucking gratitude.

* * *

( **_Wednesday_ **)

It took another full day before the hospital was willing to let Mickey come home, and that was only after a long debate with a pulmonologist, three nurses, and the head of billing.

“I don’t have the fucking cash to stay here and eat jello for another night!”

“Mr. Milkovich! Please stop cursing! We have programs for low income or under insured clients. If you go home, you could set back your recovery and end up with a collapsed lung!”

“Lemme explain this to you so you can understand it. I _am_ going home today. If I have to walk out of here buck-ass naked in a shitty paper gown with tubes fucking hangin out of my arms, I will. So either get me my walking papers, or get out of my way so I can leave without em.” Mickey wasn’t shouting, _couldn’t_ shout yet, but his threatening, rumbly voice was somehow worse.

They finally relented, and after many admonitions about smoking, coming back if his fever returned, and many dirty looks from the doctor, Mickey walked out of the hospital. Or, he walked about ten steps to the truck Mandy had once again borrowed from Kev and V. She drove the three of them home, then returned it.

* * *

**_(Wednesday - Ian)_ **

That night, they walked, albeit slowly, to the meeting on Chambers Street. Ian held Tina’s leash, and kept his eyes glued to Mickey, bundled in the scarf, coat, full wooly mittens, and a beanie. He’d refused to put on the long underwear Ian held up, or the galoshes. 

“Not wearin that shit, Gallagher!”

“But if you get cold-”

“-No way. I’m a grown-ass adult, and I can handle a two block walk without dressing like I’m crossing the Rocky Mountains!”

Secretly, Ian liked watching Mickey when he was upset. It was twisted, but watching him stand up for himself or someone else was a far cry better than the past when he’d be forced to [ passively accept ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/9393c33b787b4431680a94b825f521fd/tenor.gif?itemid=12515318) all the shit Terry had done.

“Fine. If you get sick again and I have to drag your unconscious ass back to the hospital-”

“- It’s not happening, Dr. House. M’ fine. Got enough antibiotics on board to clean up a whole whorehouse.”

“Fine!” Ian stomped out of the small bedroom, waiting anxiously in the living room.

“Don’t forget to put on Tina’s coat,” a voice called to him. Ian shook his head, a smile on his lips. Even when Mickey refused to let Ian coddle him, he still worried about the dog. Ian had seen the adoption papers tucked under the NA book, knew Mickey was thinking about keeping Tina. There’d been no interest from other potential adopters so far, but winter was always a slow season. Come spring, things would change, he knew. Focusing on the task at hand, he got Tina to sit and fastened her puffy brown jacket.

They had paused outside the meeting, ostensibly to let Tina be pet by a newcomer, but also to let Mickey catch his breath. 

Inside, the greeter was vaguely familiar to Ian, an attractive man in his early 30’s with closely cropped blond hair, full beard, and huge smile.

“Ey, Dan, what’s good?” Mickey’s voice sounded weird, uncertain. Ian had heard him sound like that before, but only in private conversations between the two of them, never directed at anyone else. His hackles rose as a thought occurred- _had Mickey fucked this guy_?

“Mickey! My man, this night is good now that you’re here! Ready to bring it in?” Dan, the guy’s name was Dan, opened his arms. Wonder of wonders, Mickey stepped forward, put a hand on the guy’s shoulder and one on his back, patting once, clearly uncomfortable. Dan squeezed him and let go, fast. 

Ian gaped. 

Once released, Mickey glanced back to him, maybe sensing his shock. 

Dan knelt down to pet Tina, talking baby talk to the dog.

“Tryin something new, that ok with you?” His voice was defensive but his eyes pled for understanding. 

Ian could give him this. 

“Yeah, yeah, Mickey, it’s ok, it’s good.” He was babbling, knew he was babbling. He hugged Dan perfunctorily, and followed Mickey to a seat in the large circle of folding chairs. 

“So how do you know that guy?” Ian tried to keep his voice casual.

“What guy?”

“Dan? The guy you just _hugged_?”

“Oh, him.”

Yes, _him_ . _How well did Mickey know him, had they fucked?_ _When_ _had they fucked? Did Mickey still want-_

“Met him at an early meeting, fuckin hipster. But after I got Teens, he had some good suggestions. Has a pit too, Aspen. Can you believe that shit? Pretentious as fuck, but he helped me figure out that walk/play/feed schedule for her.”

Ian blinked. 

_Dogs. Meetings and dogs. That was it, no illicit relationships, no prior sexual encounters. That had all been in his mind. In HIS mind, not in the real world. Fuck. When was his brain going to catch up to the fact that it was all different now, everything was different? The old rules, worries, and protections wouldn't help in his new life._

Once the meeting was underway, the topic of the night was announced: Fear. When the floor was opened for sharing, a long silence spread through the room, lit by a few electric candles and the fluorescents in the hallway. Tina laid at their feet, snoring softly.

The quiet stretched out, people shifting uncomfortably in their folding chairs. Ian had seen this happen before, usually when a lame topic came up, or when it was a small group. But never for this long. He stared to daydream and was startled back to attention when a hand beside him was slowly raised. _Mickey’s_ hand.

“Hey I’m Mickey, and uh, I’m an addict.”

“Hi Mickey,” the room chorused automatically. Only a few of the sharper-eyed members noticed who was sharing, on the floor, for the first time, after more than nine months of coming around. AJ had his eyes shut, and looked for all the world like he was asleep.

“So, fear, right?” He paused, and Ian laid his hand on Mickey’s thigh, squeezing above the knee encouragingly, without looking at him. 

“I got a lot of fears, still. About all different things. This shit- it’s hard. I have this urge, all the time, to hide. To lie and to just- just give up. It’d be so much easier if I just went back out, you know? With my family, they try but no one’s ever _not_ used drugs and alcohol. Plus my- my father, wants to kill me. No exaggeration, wants to outright murder me. Feeling's mutual, of course, what’s a little defenestration between a father and son, you get me?” He stopped to cough into his sleeve, then continued. 

“Stepwork too. I mean, I _do_ it. Sponsor tells me it’ll make all this easier, but it also makes me look at shit I ain’t thought about in years. I’m no pussy, ok? But the fucking _feelings_ , man. And before, I used to use instead of feeling. Like, I’d see some shit, do some shit, say some shit, and then I could just wipe it all away or bury it under a mountain of weed, or pills, or booze. I don’t miss the drugs but I miss not having to feel shit all the time.”

A few murmured noises of agreement from the crowd. Mickey had started to [ gesture with his hands ](https://tenor.com/view/mickey-milkovich-mickey-gif-11534307) while he spoke, and Ian watched his hands, more than his face.

“That’s what my cravings look like, these days. Not for a specific drug or substance, that all faded pretty quick. Just a craving to get out of myself for a while. So I’m on a 5th step, right? And I thought I could tell some shit to a stranger, someone at the bus stop. I went down to 5th and Ellis, and found a homeless dude: I start spilling my guts, just laying it all out there. Bolts! The guy fucking _ran_ away- I didn’t even get to the really bad shit; I was still talkin about kindergarten stuff.”

This time, the crowd did more than murmur, they laughed. Ian could see Mickey’s shock, and a little pleasure as he continued. 

“Obviously that ain’t the right way to do it, for anyone newer than me. I figured that out, why they say you should probably have a good sponsor for a 4th and 5th step. I was afraid my sponsor would rat me out, or freak out, at some of the shit in my 4th step. I had a whole plan for how I’d fire him and take the bus to meetings in Cicero, maybe rough him up or threaten him so he didn’t tell anyone my secrets. S’not what happened, obviously, cause I’m still here and he’s still breathin.”

Mickey looked over to where AJ was sitting, sipping his coffee looking positively unperturbed. 

“5th step- what was I sayin? Oh, yeah, so it’s about a new level of honesty, who am I and what do I want? And I’m afraid, cause I don’t know who I am. I have some ideas, and there’s some shit I want, or I think I want, but how do I know, for sure? A lot of my fears come down to that- I want to be _sure_. I want black and white answers to questions that are all gray areas. I know it’s impossible, and I still want em. So I guess I fear myself, and also change. When shit stays the same, I can learn to tolerate it, no matter how bad it is. But when shit changes all the time, or when I change- it’s like I can’t develop a tolerance or callus against feeling it. So uh, that’s all I got, thanks for lettin me share.”

“Thanks for sharing, Mickey!” The gathered crowd’s chorus was full-throated, people were awake now, tuned in. Four different people’s hands shot up to share. As the meeting continued, people kept referring back to things Mickey had said, identifying with him, thanking him for saying things they had thought too but been afraid to say. 

All Ian wanted was to drag him somewhere dark and private and kiss him, kiss him until he was sure he’d die if they didn’t fuck soon. But he knew that wasn’t the right move, not right here. He restricted himself to grabbing his hand and tracing his thumb over the tattoos he knew so well. Mickey looked first at their joined hands, then at Ian’s face, giving him a [ slow-growing but brilliant smile. ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/ef19bb2d983a0a9ffcb6f809068f8b40/tenor.gif?itemid=12519385)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Everyone loves Ian's texting, including me.  
> 2\. Carl x Mandy is NOT A THING. He's just dreaming.  
> 3\. This chapter has a lot of "reclaimed" dialogue, i.e. words said in other, painful contexts in the show. I've taken them and given them new, happier, or at least less traumatic, places to exist.  
> 4\. Thank you to @peppaspice for the CareBear/BedTimeBear idea! I had all sorts of Price Phillips/Agent Coulson jokes but they all fell flat.  
> 5\. I know next to nothing about hospital stays or any of that. Apologies if it's wildly inauthentic.  
> 6\. NA is not a cult. However, we do think it's funny that people say so and make jokes about it, often.  
> 7\. The rehab I attended did offer optional HIV testing, though not STD's. Depends on the site.  
> 8\. 4th step is writing about it all, 5th step is admitting it to yourself, your higher power, and another human being, usually your sponsor. Do not tell your 4th/5th step to stranger at a bus stop. You'll scare the civilians.  
> 9\. I'm laying some groundwork here for sequelae, so some of these elements may not see payoff by the end of this story-proper.  
> 10\. 8th step is becoming willing to make amends to everyone you harmed, even (especially) the ones who also harmed you. 9 is making those amends, directly or indirectly.  
> 11\. Mickey sort of glosses over it, but in NA, gratitude is an ACTION, not a feeling. You have to do something to show your gratitude, you can't just sit there and feel good about shit.  
> 12\. I want to see Tina adopted IRL and wearing every item of clothing sold. A full Tina-calendar, if possible.  
> 13\. The silence at some meetings is real. Worse on Zoom. But sometimes that pressure and discomfort can shake good things loose.  
> 14\. Mickey makes a joke in S10, Episode 8 in reference to Paula being shoved out a window: "There's, like, a fucking verb for that." The verb is defenestrate. :)  
> 15\. Next chapter will be the camp out. Might take me some extra time, but it should have a good pay off.


	26. NA: A Resource in Your Community - Mickey - (May 6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A couple comes to adopt Tina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so ORIGINALLY Chapter 26 was all of May, this section and also the whole camping trip (three days). But when I went over 10k words, I decided to break it down. Hence the chapter count is back up to 30, BUT 26 and 27 are done, and 28 is nearly done.  
> \---  
> Songs are now listed in the text, rather than in the intro because a. I am not good with HTML and b. I had a song for every section of this mega chapter, and now that it's broken into chunks, I didn't feel like going back to change that.  
> \---  
> If you an error, let me know!  
> Recovery questions? Ask away!  
> Please comment- I'm asking nicely.  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> [NA: A Resource in Your Community](https://www.na.org/admin/include/spaw2/uploads/pdf/litfiles/us_english/IP/1604_2016.pdf)  
> “Narcotics Anonymous is not a religious organization and does not mandate any particular belief system. It does teach basic spiritual principles such as honesty, openmindedness, faith, willingness, and humility that may be applied in everyday life. The specific practical application of spiritual principles is determined by each individual. Recovery in NA is not a miracle cure that happens within a given period of time. It is a process, ongoing and personal. Members make an individual decision to join and recover at their own pace.”

Time passed. The two men went to meetings, met with therapists and sponsors, did stepwork, and spent time with family. The physical tension between them was ratcheting up, and the hugs kept getting shorter and more perfunctory as a result. They were even kissing less: it was too much like having a taste of something they wanted but couldn’t have, and by unspoken agreement (and the general membership’s disappointment) the long, tender embraces were no longer the norm, now reserved for when one or the other was having a rough time. 

Months flew by in a blur, like pages in a notebook flipping endlessly. Suddenly, it was spring, and the air was warm even if the trees were still mostly barren.

* * *

[ Teenagers - My Chemical Romance ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IM5EMxuGXCI)

On the first Thursday in May, Mickey was sitting on his porch steps, smoking anxiously. He had tried to quit, after his hospitalization, but failed miserably, and now was trying to ‘cut back.’ Tina was at his feet, sniffing at a clump of weeds.

His eyes were drawn to every car that rolled past, inspecting and judging each one, then letting out a minute sigh of relief when they failed to stop. Finally, a [ macaroni-orange colored PT Cruiser ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1f/db/6f/1fdb6fe9649350d2f691c0f17abb5cae.jpg) pulled up, and a couple got out. The man looked around quickly, and hit the LOCK button, while the woman, young, by all appearances, bounded over to Mickey and Tina. Mickey [ stared ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdQBFdDX0AEkNDK?format=jpg&name=small), biting his lip. 

“Oh god, is this her? This is her, isn’t it? Honey, look! It’s Tina! She looks just the same as from the site!” The woman, a wife, maybe, had long, obviously dyed hair, pencil-thin eyebrows, and an hour-glass figure that somehow managed to look both exaggerated and biologically impossible.

Mickey bristled internally at her words- Tina looked _better_ than those shitty pictures, her coat was glossy over a well-muscled body, no trace left of the skinny, scraped-up dog he’d met in the snowy dog park. He kept his thoughts to himself, and pushed up to stand, putting out a hand to shake.

The man stepped up and clenched his hand in a weird move of dominance. Mickey played along, squeezing as good as he got, and then a bit more, until he saw the man wince slightly, and relented. He wore a suit, and the watch on his wrist looked heavy, inlaid with some type of sparkling stones that probably cost more than Mickey’s house, if it had been real, which it patently was not. _Not driving up in a PT fuckin Cruiser._

“Good to meet you. Mike, right?”

“Mickey.” He blew out a puff of smoke in the man’s direction spitefully.

“So it looks like my girl likes your dog. Any issues we need to know about?”

Mickey was getting a weird vibe off the couple, a _bad_ vibe. He tried to tell himself he wouldn’t like any of the potential adopters, that he was just being jealous or possessive. 

“No issues. Nice ride.” _It was hideous._

“Custom paint job, I picked it out myself.” The man was bragging about his bad taste? _Ok_. Mickey kept his eye-roll internal.

The younger woman was crouched down, patting Tina’s head. Not petting, _patting_ , like the dog’s head was a very tiny tamborine. 

“She likes petting, belly rubs, and pretty much any and all food.”

“All food, eh? Can’t let her have people food, wouldn’t want her to get chubby, right hon?” This was the woman.

Mickey’s internal radar neared redline at that.

 _Body shaming a formerly starving dog? What the_ **_fuck_ ** _?_

“She good with kids? Cats? Other dogs? She been bred before?”

The man was throwing these questions rapid-fire at Mickey.

“Uh, not really sure on the kids and cats. She does good at the dog park though. And she’s spayed.”

“Damn, hon, I wanted puppies.” The woman had turned to her partner, pushing out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

“Well, not sure she’s gonna be a good fit.” Mickey was trying really hard to be civil, but these two rubbed his every nerve the wrong way.

“But I love her so much! Ever since I saw her picture online, I’ve been talking about her, and showing my friends. I have to bring her home today, so I don’t disappoint them!”

Mickey blinked.

 _Today? Couldn’t be. He had a say; they couldn’t just_ **_take_ ** _Tina without giving him notice. Could they?_

“Sorry, folks, we still need to check your vet and landlord’s references. Might take a week or so.” It was Zara’s supervisor, the one who had come to do the original house check for Mickey. 

_When had he arrived?_

Mickey had been so focused on the couple, he hadn’t noticed the beige sedan pulling up. He was getting lazy in his old age, or stupid. 

With some more pouting and complaints, the woman got back in the car, not even looking back once at Tina. The man came to stand with Mickey and the supervisor, pulling out a monogrammed silver bill clip full of money.

“Let’s level here, gentlemen. How much will it take to put the dog in the car right now? I have cash.”

Mickey took a deep breath, ready to unleash his vitriol but the supervisor got there first.

“Sir, I’m not sure who gave you the impression that we would be amenable to that type of transaction, but let me assure you, we are **not** . There is a process and a procedure. _If_ your application is approved, you will hear from us. Otherwise, good day, sir.”

Mickey heard the emphasis on the ‘if,’ knew the couple had no chance in hell, which helped him rein in his temper. 

The man didn’t even dignify them with a response, just got back into the car, slamming his own door. _Suuuuper mature._

He restricted himself to a wave that turned into a sideways [ middle finger ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d2/72/d8/d272d8e486c23b02af1400bfed80bc17.jpg) as the ugly car pulled away with a squeal of tires.

Mickey watched carefully, as the supervisor sighed, and loosened his tie. 

“Total assholes, right?”

He felt a sense of relief flood through his body, raising one [ eyebrow ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSCPy6K7HaGeOBDj2k2zDjrnn0f9Lg3rV2l1iVUZe-vKgFFSY4&s). “Yeah, man, totally. That car…”

“Ugly as sin. Anyone who talks about breeding a rescue dog- clearly they have the wrong idea.” The man turned, sizing up Mickey. “What about you?”

He responded defensively, afraid he was being judged too. “What about me, man? I’m doing everything you guys want, she gets the fancy food, she goes to the vet, gets heartworm medicine once a month, all that shit. I even dress her up and take the pictures for your website.”

“Relax, Mickey. I mean what about you adopting her?”

Mickey sat down on the steps again, which Tina took as a signal that it was sit-in-Mickey’s-lap time. 

“Am I nothing but a warm lap to you?” Even though the words were harsh, his tone was soft, and he was helping scoop her up and settle her on his thighs as he said it, belying any negativity he’d expressed. “I still don’t have the resources. I can’t pay for all that- the fee, the food, the vet.”

The supervisor just nodded. “Look, I’m going to keep her file active, but I’m not pushing her on anyone. She’s in a good spot, and I can’t imagine her anywhere else. Take some time, see if your situation doesn’t change.”

Mickey felt his eyes prickle, and ducked his face into Tina’s sleek coat before he did something stupid like _cry_ , breath hitching, “Thanks, man”

He really was a soft touch these days, but he couldn’t muster the energy to berate himself for it anymore. The question he’d been asking for months was starting to be answered. 

_Who was he? He was a man with a dog._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry this is short, but the next few chapters will MORE than make up for it.  
> 2\. I'm still doing the "reclaiming traumatic lines" one scene at a time thing. See: Nothing but a warm mouth/lap.


	27. Memorial Day Weekend - Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Camping Trip: Day 1 (Friday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs are set for each section now, rather than the chapter as a whole.  
> \---  
> Up next is Saturday Shenanigans!  
> \---  
> If you catch a mistake, let me know so I can fix it.  
> Recovery questions? Ask away!  
> I love comments- seriously, I need the dopamine.  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!

(Friday Morning - Ian)

[ Better Days - The Darcys ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18J2w7ECjZw)

When AJ’s SUV pulled up in front of the Gallagher house at 11am, Ian was ready, _beyond_ ready, really. He had been up and packed for hours, trying to burn off his nervous energy by alternating between pacing and writing on stepwork. 

The passenger window of the SUV had rolled down, and Mickey had hung his head and arm out. 

“Yo, Gallagher, you packed enough for a month- it’s only a three day weekend, ya know. Two nights, coulda packed one outfit for the whole thing.”

Ian grinned. Mickey was wearing a [ Hawaiian print shirt ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DfmcVLXW0Ag5pw8.jpg), and his hair was slightly disheveled, a cowlick sticking up where he’d probably been rubbing it.

“I know, I know, but I wanted to be prepared for every eventuality.” AJ popped the trunk, and Ian lowered his gaze.

Not _every_ eventuality: he had left out a few key items, not wanting to tempt himself quite this close to his one-year celebration.

Mickey had celebrated a week prior, eating cake and getting a small [ bronze medallion ](https://cdn3.volusion.com/nrftt.mdumn/v/vspfiles/photos/NAB-2.jpg?v-cache=1569393917) at the meeting. 

“Ok, boy scout,” Mickey scoffed, but with no bitterness behind it.

Tina’s happy face hung over the back of the second row seats as Ian loaded his duffle bag into the trunk. “Hey, Teens.” He reached out and rubbed at her jowl, noting she had a [ bandana that matched ](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/717iM8ZqLML._AC_SY450_.jpg) Mickey’s shirt; he knew for a _fact_ that wasn’t from the rescue. Mickey must have gone out and bought it, or maybe he sent Mandy. It was- it was _sweet_ , in a way he didn’t normally associate with Mickey, but he liked it.

“Sorry we’re running a little late, someone,” here, AJ’s voice took on a sing-song note, “forgot the dip. Buckle up.”

Ian slid into the backseat and buckled himself in as directed.

“Means himself. Don’t let him try and bullshit you,” Mickey corrected.

Reflexively, Ian started to reassure the two. “Ok, no worries. I was- _shit_ , I was about to lie. I was waiting, but I kept busy.”

Mickey met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, face inscrutable, but didn’t comment. 

“Michelle says if I realize I’m in the middle of a lie, I should correct myself. It’s fucking uncomfortable.”

AJ nodded sagely. “Been there. I spent the better part of two years getting half lies out and then taking them back. Everyone understood then, they’ll get it now.”

A moment passed, with no sound except the wind and the road.

Mickey started to fiddle with the radio, randomly pressing buttons until AJ slapped his hand away. “I am **not** letting you play disc jockey for three hours. Pick a station and stick with it.”

“None of these stations look good- whoever heard of Radio Disney or The Pulse?”

“It’s XM radio, hang on, just let me-” AJ punched a few buttons until the display showed _The Spectrum_. 

“Three hours, eh?” asked Ian.

“We’ll stop for lunch at a place I know, and get there around 1:30 or so. Plenty of time to get a hike in or get in the water.”

“Water?” Mickey had stopped dicking around with the radio and was listening attentively.

“Yeah, there’s a pretty nice lake to go in. Still a little cold, but clean enough,” AJ explained.

Ian was momentarily distracted by his thoughts: splashing fights with Mickey in the lake, both of them shirtless…

“Can’t swim.” The low voice drew him back.

“Huh?”

“Can’t fucking swim, Gallagher. No one ever took me to the Y for swim lessons or paid for a pool pass. I’ll hold your towel, maybe Tina and I’ll go for a solo walk.”

“Aww, Mickey. Don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll skip it. We’ll figure it out.”

“Figure out my ass,” Mickey muttered darkly. Ian could already foresee the fun to be had showing Mickey how to swim, watching his confidence grow in a whole new area, but he wouldn’t push. 

Not yet, at least. Not until they were at the river, and Mickey could see what he might miss out on. Good thing Ian had packed those swim trunks. 

_Semper paratus_ , indeed. He smiled to himself, as Tina wiggled her way onto his lap.

  
A heavy book was suddenly flying at his face; he ducked instinctively, then caught the tome before it could drop on the dog. 

“Quiz me, while we got the time,” Mickey demanded from the front seat.

Ian flipped the book, and looked at the cover. It was a GED prep book. He knew Mickey had been going to the twice weekly classes, but he hadn’t realized the man was taking it so seriously. 

* * *

(Friday Afternoon - Mickey)

[ Joshua Radin - Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHlf08yTPiU)

[ You are Gold - The National Parks ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-7BjanEo38)

After stopping for lunch at a [ vegan place ](https://ccsiceesgalore.com/) AJ swore up and down wouldn’t suck, (it hadn’t, though Mickey had busted his balls over the idea of vegan chili fries, they ended up being fairly tasty) they arrived at the campgrounds a little later than AJ had predicted, it was 2pm, and the day was baking with an early spring heat.

The campsite only had four parking spots, which were all filled, one by Michelle’s Subaru, leaving AJ, Mickey, Ian, and Tina to park at an overflow lot and carry all their baggage to the site. 

It was basically a dirt clearing in the woods, about 60 feet wide, with two fire pits, surrounded by trees of varying heights and thicknesses.

The overlapping foliage dimmed the bright sun but it streamed through in a few spots, illuminating the ground like a spotlight. There were a few smaller trees scattered throughout the clearing, as well as numerous rocks and tree stumps. A pair of old, unpainted picnic tables were piled high with other people’s belongings: they weren’t the first to arrive. 

Kate was already there and was working with Michelle and an older man to set up a giant canopy in one corner of the clearing. They were surrounded by coolers, flats of bottled water, and milk crates of cookout supplies. A handful of tents were scattered around, in various states of set up. There were even a few camping hammocks strung between trees. The large fire pit wasn’t lit, but it was laid.

“Hey, Kate!” Ian dropped his burdens and bounded over to give his friend and sponsor giant hugs as Mickey stood there with his proverbial thumb up his ass. AJ was walking the perimeter of the campsite, trying to find the right flat bit of root-filled and rocky ground that would be somehow softer than every other root-filled and rocky bit of ground for the tents. Tina was basically bouncing in place at the end of her leash, torn between staring into the woods in fascination and back at Mickey’s face to see why he was just standing there.

 _Why_ **_was_ ** _he just standing there?_

He hitched the bags up over his shoulders in determination, and dragged Tina over to where AJ had settled his stuff. The spot looked the same as every other piece of the campsite, but AJ had decided this was it, so Mickey tethered Tina to a tree nearby, poured her a bowl of water, and went to help set up their tent. He could still hear Ian and Kate chattering with the man he didn’t recognize. It took him a moment to parse the thought, he _knew_ people in NA. By face, if not by name. Some of them in more detail than others, having heard them share extensively. 

AJ seemed to know what he was doing, and directed Mickey to stand here, help me lay this out flat, hold this, now let go, pull on that, and so forth for a while, and suddenly there was a tent in front of him, just big enough for him to lay down flat, sit up, and maybe stuff a dog in somewhere. It had just appeared, effectively, from a pile of poles and tarps, and turned into a fully functional, albeit small, safe and dry shelter to lay his head. Mickey couldn’t quite explain how it had happened, which felt like a metaphor for something in his life. Next, AJ pointed out a spot further away from the main cluster, and Mickey helped him set up his own, substantially larger, tent. 

“Hey, why do you get this big ass-tent and Tina and I get the measly one?”

AJ stopped messing with the tent cover (which was a _thing_ , to keep the dew off, apparently?) and stared Mickey down before replying, “First of all, ungrateful.” 

Mickey was abashed, he _did_ sound like a self-centered prick, and he opened his mouth to apologize but AJ went on.

“Second, small tents are easier to keep warm with one person. And finally, didn’t want you to get any ideas of offering space to anyone else. I want my tent back unmolested, thank you very much.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I mean- thanks, for lending me the tent.”

The apology and the thanks just rolled off his tongue, like he was a normal human being and not a feral child raised by Milkovich wolves.

“Don’t worry about it. Get to work setting up your blankets- don’t wanna try doing that once the sun goes down and it’s dark and chilly.”

Mickey had understood enough conceptually about camping to be worried that he didn’t have a sleeping bag, but AJ had assured him that with Mandy’s discarded yoga mat as a pad, two good comforters would do fine. He went ahead and laid them out, zippering the tent shut so no one could look in and judge his half-assed set up. 

By this point, Ian had discovered the tent Kate already had fully set up for the two of them, and tossed his sleeping bag (that had once been his, then Carl’s, then Frank’s, and was now his once again) in haphazardly along with his bag. 

Mickey flinched, hearing the meds rattling as the bag landed, but if Gallagher wasn’t concerned, he wouldn’t mother-hen him. 

Kate and the stranger went back under the large canopy space and Ian practically skipped back over to Mickey. 

“Hey, Mick, wanna go for a walk?”

“A walk? Thought we were here to hike and get our kumbaya-yas out in nature or some shit?”

“Yeah, we are, but I like the idea of taking a walk with you.” Gallagher wasn’t meeting his eyes. “With you and Tina, I mean.”

Mickey peeked around, saw no one was listening or watching; AJ had disappeared into his tent to set up some camera equipment.

_I could be a man who takes walks with his boyfriend._

“Sure, why not.” He reached out for Gallagher’s big, freckled paw, grasping it in his own, the tattoos and the freckles overlapping. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Really?” Ian was looking at their hands, not his face. _All according to his plan._

“Unless we’re supposed to be doing something else here?”

“Nope, we’re free. Kate and Mark have dinner covered, so we have a few hours.”

“Good deal. Carry this shit for me, and I’ll take Tina.”

Mickey released his hand, picked up and thrust a knapsack into Ian’s arms. 

He caught Ian looking at his empty hand for a minute, but he untied Tina, and threaded their fingers back together, squeezing lightly. 

After checking in with AJ to find out which way to the trails, the two set out with Tina. She wanted to stop and smell every tree, stare into every dark crevasse, and pee about every 4 steps, but she quickly figured out the plan, and meandered happily by Mickey’s side, Ian on the other, as the two men still clasped hands. 

Mickey wasn’t 100% comfortable in the woods; he kept hearing rustling off the sides of the trail, and was low-key convinced there was a bear in there. Ian soon noticed his discomfiture.

“It’s probably just a deer. Or a squirrel,” Ian reassured him.

“Squirrels are just hairy rats, which is like, whatever. But it’s the big shit- I looked it up. Did you know there are bears, cougars, fuckin _wolves_ out here?” Mickey was still eyeing the woods with distrust.

“Nah, not in May. Maybe in late summer, but not now.”

The trail split, and Ian tugged them towards the left hand path.

Mickey followed, “Just sayin, if we see a large carnivore, I’m grabbing Tina and running, and if you’re left behind, tough shit.”

“I call bullshit: first of all I run faster than you any day of the week. Second, I can run _way_ faster than you carrying Tina, so let me grab her, and you run in front of me.”

Mickey [ grinned ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/290fc70c5beb2c29da0ef77cd9b1e06f/tenor.gif?itemid=12515320) down at the dirt on the trail at his feet; this was good, them arguing over who would leave who behind to be killed by a bear. “Sure, man, whatever. You’d run after my ass anyway.”

“I really would.” Ian clenched his fingers, sending a surge of warmth up Mickey’s arm.

The trail climbed steadily, and they walked in silence for a while, just watching the woods, kicking a few stray rocks, breathing in clean air. 

“I entered the housing lottery,” Ian stated, breaking the quiet of their surroundings.

“The what now?”

“Ed told me about this thing the city offers, for low-income people with disabilities.”

“But you ain’t disabled!”

Ian gazed at him softly, voice husky. “My bipolar _is_ a disability, technically. But that part doesn’t matter, because the wait can be really long. Like, years, for some people.”

“Ok, and?”

“That’s it. I entered. Filled out the forms. Someday, maybe I’ll have a place.”

_Gallagher having his own place? Was that a smart idea? Who would remind him to eat with his meds? Would he invite people over- invite men over?_

Mickey consciously pulled his brain away from that train of images. He thought back to Gallagher’s worries when Mickey had talked about getting his own place, realizing he was falling into the same trap, and said simply, “Good for you, man.”

Abruptly, they came to the top of the ridge. They stopped, looking out over the vista. 

Mickey recovered from the view first, and studied the ground, looking for a - _Ah_ , he saw a spot that would work.

Pulling his hand away, he thrust the leash into Ian’s empty hand and motioned for him to unsling the backpack and hand it to him. Mickey crouched down, unzipping the bag and pulling out an old, partially moth-eaten, red fleece blanket he’d had forever. 

He shook the blanket out, and laid it on a comparatively soft piece of ground, near the edge of the ridge, Ian watching, eyes wide.

“Sit your ass down, Gallagher.”

“Was I just invited to a picnic, Mick? Did you pack us a little snack in your bag?” Ian’s words were teasing but his voice was low and a little awed.

“Fuck you is what you were invited to. And yeah, there are snacks, so if you’d rather go dick around in the woods with the bears and otters,” he sneaked a look at Ian, to see if he caught the joke, saw him snickering, and continued, “I’ll feed yours to Teens.”

Ian sat down quickly. “Can’t have that, the bears would definitely eat my ass.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, kind of wishing he hadn’t started the joke. 

“You love that shit.”

“True, but I love eating ass more.”

“You want your fucking snack or are we just gonna flirt?”

“Can’t we do both?” Ian asked, his voice hopeful.

“Not unless you want to walk back to the campsite with history’s biggest blue balls.”

Ian’s face fell at that, and Mickey- fuck, he felt _mean_. Like he’d kicked a puppy. 

_Was he a mean person?_ He didn’t _want_ to be, he knew that much.

He reached out, putting a hand on Gallagher’s knee and catching his eyes with a direct stare that made him feel like his guts were all cut open and lying on the blanket around them for Gallagher to poke with a stick, “We’re _so_ close, man. Less than a week. I’m- I’m fucking proud of us. I know it’s hard- and don’t make that another shitty joke, ok?” 

_Should he kiss him? Was that what_ _~~real~~ _ _normal people would do?_

Fuck Terry one more time, for not teaching him when the right time was to show physical affection. He decided against it, promising himself he’d revisit the idea later.

Ian exhaled a long breath, and nodded once, sharply. Mickey reached into the backpack and pulled out a tube of bar-b-q Pringles, tossing it into Gallagher’s lap.

“Eat your chips, bitch.”

_He was a man who surprised his boyfriend with nice things._

He saw something move across the slowly darkening sky, too fast to identify.

"Hey, did you see that?" Ian inquired.

"What was it?"

"Shooting star, maybe?"

"Like falling star, make a wish, shit?"

"Like we're stargazing on a picnic. But yeah, make a wish."

Mickey did, closing his eyes and calling out to the universe.

 _Please_.

No more than that, nothing more specific. Just, _please_.

* * *

(Friday Evening - Ian)

[ Cry for Judas - The Mountain Goats ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grT3CXRd5-Q)

Once they got back to the campsite, it was relatively full, tents having cropped up around the perimeter and people sitting in folding chairs and on tree stumps. They had gone their separate ways, Ian looking for Michelle, and Mickey on some other errand. 

Kate, Michelle, and Mark, an addict from the nearby town, had cooked a substantial but simple dinner- hamburgers, hotdogs, veggie burgers, and a few sausages. A production line had formed, with people starting at the picnic tables, getting plates, drinks, and sides, then waiting patiently in line until the next round of meat (and meat substitutes) were cooked. Ian made it through the entire sequence, ending up with a charred hot dog in a cold roll, no plate, warm water bottle.

He didn’t see Mickey anywhere, though he did see that AJ had Tina’s leash looped around one wrist. The man was about to start eating a veggie burger with all the fixins when he set the plate down to put on the finishing touch, slathering on a spoonful of mango salsa from a jar. Ian made a face automatically, then he caught sight of Mickey [ walking ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1283882232990453760) up from the deeper woods, a cigarette hanging from one hand. He wore only a sleeveless striped tank top, and the air was rapidly cooling. Ian’s eyes were drawn to the pebbled tips of his nipples, clearly visible through the thin material. He felt his pulse increase, and mentally kicked himself. Mickey had set another clear boundary, and he was going to try to abide by it. Operative word? _Try_.

Mickey strode over to him, and Ian stood there like a scarecrow, hot dog in one hand. It was like he was mesmerized by the simplest things about Mickey, like how his shoulders [ swayed ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/f9ce5cb88e3dbe3b36b5b710e4d09561/tenor.gif?itemid=5305345) when he walked in the tank top, delts flexing. Ian wanted to suck and bite at them until Mickey was pushing his head away, down, pulling him up, _whatever_.

 _Kick_.

“Meeting starts in ten, so grab food if you haven’t already and bring your chair to the circle!” Someone made the announcement, and the assorted addicts did a weird, amoeba-like movement, flowing out to the tents, then shrinking back to a large, uneven circle of folding and camp chairs around the firepit.

“How is that?” Mickey pointed the tip of his lit cigarette at the half eaten hot dog in Ian’s hand. Ian looked foolishly at his own hand, at the forgotten food. 

“Oh! It’s fine. Little crispy, guess I ordered extra carbon on mine.”

“Eh, maybe I’ll try a burger.” 

“Want me to save you a seat?” The circle was rapidly filling in, and as Ian made the offer he realized he might not be able to fulfill it.

“I’m good, you go ‘head.” Mickey’s response disappointed Ian, though he tried not to let it show.

Mickey knew anyway, catching his eye. “Look, I’ll catch up with you after, we’ll hang out, ok?”

“Sure, Mickey.” He waved his half hot dog vaguely towards the circle, “I’ll just- go now.”

Mickey nodded, face serious as he took a last drag on the cigarette.

Shortly the meeting around the campfire started. No one had books or readings, though a few people had enough preambles memorized to do a decent job. The sky was fully dark now, and the leaping flames were the only light. Even with 40 people gathered, there was complete silence aside from the person speaking. Crickets, a few night birds, and the wind rustling through overhead leaves all filled the air with ambient sounds. The smell of the cooked food and the burning wood smoke filled the air.

Looking around, Ian saw Mickey had procured a [ dark colored](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EPMRVyPXkAE6iiS.jpg), cable knit sweater, oddly incongruous with his tan shorts and hiking boots. He had some kind of burger half eaten in one hand. Tina lay contentedly at his feet, side by side with another dog, a chunky [ gray ](https://www.dogbreedinfo.com/images26/AmericanPitbullTerrierDogPurebredDogPuppyBlue3HalfMonths2.jpg) pitbull. The two dogs looked well acquainted, and when he realized Dan was seated next to Mickey, the flames of jealousy leapt in his heart before he could stomp them out. 

_Dogs and meetings. Aspen and Tina. That was_ **_it_ ** _._

When would his limbic system get the memo that this jealous bullshit was just in his head? 

_When I can really feel him again_ , his brain supplied, unhelpfully. 

Like somehow, after a certain number of orgasms, it would paint Ian into Mickey’s DNA and he’d be physically unable to leave.

_Such crap._

Anyone could leave. Anyone. At any time. Monica and Frank had proven that point. His own lived experience proved it, as often he was the one who had left. 

So why was he still looking for proof of Mickey’s feelings for him? Mickey’s story about fear, those months ago, after he’d gotten out of the hospital came back to Ian. Ian was seeking certainty in an uncertain world, assurances and promises that he’d never get. He had to either accept the uncertainty, or walk away. He knew he couldn’t walk away. He gazed up at the stars visible through the branches, and thought about it all. 

_Entropy. This was all entropy. The universe becomes less orderly over time. Things will always happen that I cannot predict. Enjoy the good while I have it, know that it will end. Suffer the challenges, know they too will end._

That helped, actually. He was able to bring his attention back to the meeting, to shoot fewer heated glances at Mickey and fewer dagger-laced gazes at Dan. 

When Michelle raised her hand to share on freedom, he gave her his full attention, nodding along as she made a few good observations about their scenic location and their good fortune at being clean and all here together.

The meeting ended as they stood around the circle, hands linked or arms slung over shoulders, reciting the Serenity Prayer into the darkness, voices joined. When the prayer ended, a moment of silence descended over the group, just briefly, and then the fire crackled, a log snapped, and the natural conversation resumed.

* * *

(Friday Night - Mickey)

[ Only You - Joshua Radin ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DntmcaYPv5A)

Mickey and Ian ended the night sitting in folding camp chairs beside Mickey’s tent, which Ian took delight in calling a hobbit-hole. There was a larger tree in front of them, and while they weren’t hidden _per se_ , they were screened a little. Objectively Mickey knew Ian was teasing about the tent being so small and low to the ground, but comfortable looking. On the other hand, he suspected and feared that it was a layered dig about his height, so he was feeling prickly, and the conversation quickly petered out due to his monosyllabic responses.

Ian was getting more and more frustrated, and finally stood, brushing his hands off against his thighs. “Look, I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but I’m going to bed if you don’t get it together. You don’t get to punish me for the shit going on in your head, ok?”

It was literally the worst version of boundary setting Mickey had ever witnessed, and yet he was delighted to hear it. He had harbored a secret fear that Ian would accept his bad behavior, like, globally, and that he wouldn’t have any accountability, and would slip back into treating Gallagher like a fucking skeleton in his closet. 

His voice was quiet, rough with unspoken thoughts. “[ Don’t ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/041a848e882f3172c3f3f2a22c03e1c7/tenor.gif?itemid=12551261).” There was a pause as he stood and faced Gallagher, then added, “You’re right. I’m- I’m sorry.” Someday, he hoped to be able to apologize for things without the sudden pain behind his breastbone that made his voice catch in his throat, but the important thing now was that he got it out. “The hobbit thing. It, uh, it hurt my feelings. Thought you were makin’ fun of me.”

Expressing his emotions so openly left him feeling exposed, so he turned away, towards the tent, crouching to unzip the door. Ian was on him in a flash, kneeling behind him, arms coming up to hold him in place, head dipped to whisper in his ear. “Oh, Mick. No. When I tease you,” he placed a delicate, close-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin behind Mickey’s ear, “you’ll know. And it won’t be,” this time it was a bite, just the hint of a nibble of Mickey’s earlobe, “cause of your height. You’re the perfect height, you know?”

Mickey leaned back, feeling Gallagher’s heat even through the layer of clothing, closing his eyes. He’d _missed_ this, and the [ smile ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdPSntPXoAgWeaE?format=jpg&name=small) was evident in his voice as he asked, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ian growled, his fingers sliding under the front of Mickey’s sweater, pressing into the soft flesh of his midsection. “Perfect for me, god, you smell so good.” Mickey knew without even being able to see him that Gallagher had closed his eyes and was taking deep, open-mouthed lung-fulls of whatever the fuck he smelled like, the way he did whenever they hugged, especially back in the beginning. That memory brought Mickey back to the present sharply, regretfully, “Ian, we can’t...”

“I know,” Gallagher’s hands slid back, pressing the cabled material back over Mickey’s body, patting it into its rightful place. “But we can still…” He nuzzled hot breaths and ghosting kisses over Mickey’s neck, making a short, abortive thrust against Mickey’s ass, his cock thick and full, Mickey could feel. 

_Well,_ **_that_ ** _was new._

He reached a hand back, pulling Gallagher’s hips in tighter, reveling in his effect on the taller man. “We will. Soon,” he promised [ simply ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdPcTy_U0AAOAZr?format=jpg&name=large), voice greedy. 

Gallagher pulled back, out of Mickey’s grasp, and the sudden cold air between them wasn’t what he wanted. What he _wanted_ was to pull Gallagher into the tent and ravage him, fuckin wreck him, suck him until he was mindless with it. 

_Not yet._

He turned, so he could see Gallagher’s face, curious.

Ian was staring down at his own very evident hard-on, an expression of mixed hope, happiness, and wariness on his face. He murmured something, but Mickey didn’t catch it, though he wanted very much to. “Use your words.” 

“ _Dick voodoo_. I said you’re doing dick voodoo to me.”

“Ain’t that the shit with the tiny needles? You sayin I’m sticking needles in your dick?”

Ian laughed, just pure good humor and happiness. It wasn’t loud, the sound didn’t carry far, but even still, a few people glanced over, seeing only two men kneeling in front of each other, having a conversation.

“No, nope. Thought my dick was permanently broken but now-” He shook his head, “It’s magic, you’re like magic for me, Mick.”

“If humping me in the woods is magic for you, then whatever happens after this,” seeing the light in Ian’s eyes, he quickly clarified, “like, in the near future, is gonna blow your mind.”

“Oh, I have no doubt. I’ll probably die of happiness. Just leave you there, my dick in your ass, corpse draped over your back.”

Mickey shuddered at the idea, glancing around, “Yeah, no thanks. Maybe we can skip the necrophilia, ok?”

Ian [ smiled ](https://dwgyu36up6iuz.cloudfront.net/heru80fdn/image/upload/c_fill,d_placeholder_thescene.jpg,fl_progressive,g_face,h_470,q_80,w_265/v1420493745/teenvogue_all-access-shameless-actor-cameron-monaghan-on-his-dream-role.jpg) at him, he caught it out of the corner of his eye, that smile that he only broke out around Mickey, that made him look like a [ kid ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/5bea75843fa524c33697a06d4d1ed974/tenor.gif?itemid=7372728) again. They shifted, sitting in the camp chairs, [ holding hands ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/12e970647e33d1f93f82b1f65db7eb5f/75010e5141a991f6-a0/s640x960/344e024b9ea59c903a27b13b22990a7ec665e6df.jpg) across the space between them.

_I am a man who does magic on his boyfriend’s dick._

A guitar string was plucked, and then they heard Kate’s voice across the large space.

“Austin’s gonna play for us for a while, if no one minds?”

The general consensus was positive, and Austin began to play a [ melody ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFGs7HP15d4) Mickey didn’t recognize. He saw that Ian’s mouth was a hard-set line, that he was holding his breath.

_Anxious, fearful. Would this be a repeat of Halloween?_

“Uh, this one goes out to Teddy.” Austin’s voice was strong and sweet as he launched into the song.

_Not Ian, thank god._

He saw Gallagher breath at last, and nudged his shoulder, for comfort. Across the circle from Austin, a terribly skinny man with bleached blond curly hair and rampant acne on his face was staring, gazing adoringly at Austin.

_Well, good for them._

_When my body won't hold me anymore_

_And it finally lets me free_

_Will I be ready?_

Mickey kind of zoned out, just sitting, being with Ian in this place and at this time, when he had nowhere else he should be, nowhere else he wanted to be.

_When the sun hangs low in the west_

_And the light in my chest_

_Won't be kept held at bay any longer_

_When the jealousy fades away_

_And it's ash and dust for cash and lust_

_And it's just hallelujah_

_And love in thoughts and love in the words_

_Love in the songs they sing in the church_

_And no hard feelings_

_Lord knows they haven't done_

_Much good for anyone_

_Kept me afraid and cold_

_With so much to have and hold_

Ian leaned over and dropped a small, sweet kiss on his lips, surprising Mickey. His first instinct still was to look around, see who was watching, judging, but he made the gesture small, just a flick of his eyes. 

_Nothing, no one._

“What was that for?”

“Because I can. Because we couldn’t for so long, and now I wanna make up for lost time.”

“Clean time ain’t lost time, man.”

“Didn’t mean this year.”

“Oh.”

He meant _before_ , when Mickey had been hiding, hiding everything, when they’d both been hiding so much.

_Under the curving sky_

_I'm finally learning why_

_It matters for me and you_

_To say it and mean it too_

_For life and its loveliness_

_And all of its ugliness_

_Good as it's been to me_

_I have no enemies_

They listened to the end of the song in silence, and by unspoken agreement each headed off to sleep in their own tents, both warm and lonely, hopeful and sad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. And we're off on the big camping trip!  
> 2\. There are bronze medallions for various recovery lengths, but they start at 1 year.  
> 3\. At your first year's celebration, your homegroup buys you a cake. After that, buy your own damn cake!  
> 4\. The lying thing is real. When we learn to stop, it doesn't happen all at once, we start by catching the lie as it comes out, and walking it back.  
> 5\. Early in writing this story, pretty much as soon as I realized the camping trip would happen, my reader and I came up with the swimming scene. Luckily, it is wildly different than Grayola's, otherwise I would have been very sad that they did it better. So you're going to get MY version of the swimming scene.  
> 6\. Semper paratus means always prepared. It's a boy scout motto.  
> 7\. AJ is a fan favorite, and mine too. He takes no shit, but he isn't a dick.  
> 8\. Kumbaya-yas is an OLD joke from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  
> 9\. I know when to use who vs whom, but Mickey doesn't, so when we're in his head, no whom.  
> 10\. Housing lotteries are real. Wait time is stupid long.  
> 11\. There are NEVER enough LRPD elements. Never.  
> 12\. Why are so many people in recovery vegetarian and vegan? IDK but it's a thing.  
> 13\. Dick-voodoo was another @EmpressRegnant thing that I fell in love with.  
> 14\. So many of you wanted a nice outcome for Austin, but I don't know if this is it. Green + Green = Black and Blue.


	28. Memorial Day Weekend - Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camping Trip Day 2: Saturday  
> A little light on recovery in this chapter, but a lot of emotional heavy lifting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, 26-29 were all one chapter at one point.? This chapter was a beast. For a fic that I thought would come in between 40-60k words, this thing has taken on a life of its own, and I couldn't be happier!  
> \---  
> Songs are set for each section still.  
> \---  
> Please do comment. I stalk my hits and comments pretty much non stop, cause summer vacation is boring.  
> \---  
> If you catch a mistake, let me know so I can fix it.  
> Recovery questions? Ask away!  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!

### (Saturday Morning - Mickey)

[ Good Morning - Grouplove ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bC3uMnEclc)

Waking up in the one-man tent was an experience. Tina had snored all night, and farted too. Heck, Mickey did the same, but the two of them in an enclosed space? Fucking toxic. Now his bladder was making itself known, urgently.

He didn’t know what time it was, only that it was early. And weirdly chilly. He sat up, rubbing at his messy hair, and pulled on the sweater from the night before, shoving the blankets into a corner and unzipping the tent flap. There was a light mist on the ground, only a few people were up and moving around. 

Mark and Kate were in the cooking area of the site, rustling bags, probably setting up breakfast. He sincerely hoped there were provisions for coffee as he crawled out of the tent and headed deeper into the woods to piss, Tina at his heels. He hadn’t bothered with her leash, and a part of him registered the worry that she’d run off and get lost in the woods, but he acknowledged that it was unlikely, and tried to focus on what was in front of him, trying to find a spot to piss that didn’t have a direct sight line to the campsite or any suspicious looking plants. Since he had exactly zero forestry and plant knowledge, everything green looked iffy to him. 

When he got back, a cold breakfast was laid out, bagels with various toppings, and he was relieved to see both an old-fashioned percolator and a french press by the campfire. One of the hanging hammocks next to him rustled, shifted, and suddenly flipped, dumping a still mostly-asleep Dan on the ground. He sat up, blinking in the pale light, and rubbed his eyes. 

“Hey, man, you ok?” Mickey couldn’t do anything if he _weren’t_ ok, but he figured it would be polite to ask.

“Yep, yes, I’m awake now. I think. Morning, Mickey, Tina. How’d you sleep?”

“Eh, I think every rock in the place is hiding under my tent.”

“Hammocks, man, the only way to sleep.”

Mickey eyed the thing skeptically. With a dismount like that, _no, thank you_ , he’d stick to his nest of blankets and rocks.

“Thanks, I’m ok. I’d just have a nightmare and fall in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, that’d be bad. Hey, I’m gonna go brush my teeth before the meeting, you good?”

“Yeah, man, go ahead.” Mickey watched the blond man unleash his grey dog and head off, Aspen at his heels. Tina watched them go, and looked up at Mickey's face uncertainly. 

“Stay with me, baby girl. “You want breakfast?”

The dog’s ears perked up at that, and she gave a muffled noise of excitement. He led her back to the tent, and portioned out some dry kibbles in a plastic bowl, taking the opportunity to refill her water bowl from a bottle he’d snagged from the “kitchen” space. 

Over hot coffee and cold bagels, AJ commandeered Mickey for the morning, telling him they were gonna talk about steps while they hiked. Mickey shot Ian an apologetic glance, but the redhead just smiled and shrugged with understanding. Of course, AJ caught the whole exchange, and made sure to state that he’d have Mickey back around lunch time. It felt uncomfortable to have other people keeping track of his whereabouts, and also a little like he was being micromanaged, but he went with it. 

“See ya later, Captain Sixth Step,” Ian called as they walked away. Mickey shot him [ the finger ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/2088a8807cbfe169c61d594c2fc4ae36/tenor.gif?itemid=15733386), though his grin diminished the effect somewhat.

* * *

### (Saturday Afternoon - Mickey)

[ Currents - The National Parks ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl1ZmtgOFVE)

[ Somewhere Only We Know - Keane ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oextk-If8HQ)

  
  


After the hike with AJ, Mickey was damp with sweat. They hadn’t walked fast, or even gone far, but the terrain they’d covered had been gravelly and uneven, mostly uphill. Tina had taken it all in stride, and AJ’s long legs just ate up the ground, but Mickey felt like he’d been half jogging just to keep pace, especially since AJ had kept asking him fucking probing questions about his character defects and assets the whole damn time. Talking, and thinking, and walking all at once felt like asking too much.

Back in the campsite clearing, Ian was in a [ racerback shirt and grey shorts ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2e/cc/d1/2eccd12d04e942101f7415851b0be8fe.jpg), carefully laying branches in the firepit, preparing for the night’s bonfire. He looked up when Mickey got back, a broad smile stretching over his freckled face.

“Hey, Mickey!”

“[ Missed ya ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/1142716d7f80b746ee7cda8b6c727cd6/tenor.gif?itemid=12515304), firecrotch.”

“You did?” That note of hope, of surprise, in Ian’s voice, it _hurt_ Mickey. 

He’d heard it before, back when they were just kids, hiding everything, all the time, and now he realized how often Ian had searched and longed for a sign, any sign, that he cared. He rubbed his [ mouth ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/927cf2d20e9eaec12757e15042743b0d/tumblr_mzt8l9ooRY1sb16lio1_500.gif) , expression guilty and uncertain, trying to figure out how, _if_ , he could make this up to the man now, a decade later. 

_One problem at a time_.

“Yep, this sadistic asshole made me walk for miles.”

“Wasn’t a forced death march, you coulda said ‘no’ at any point. I even brought him back right on time, Ian.” AJ pointedly looked at his watch, “It’s not even one o’clock.”

“Did we miss food?” Mickey wasn’t griping, but he didn’t really want to stand around all sweaty and gross. Tina flopped on her side, panting lightly in the warmth of the day.

The young blond man from the night before, Teddy, wandered over, and gestured at the picnic table, where an array of premade sandwiches were laid out. 

“Lunch is served!” He proclaimed proudly, despite having done no more than observe the production of said lunch.

Mickey and AJ grabbed sandwiches, and Mickey made sure to give Tina water. She lapped up half of a bottle, and then closed her eyes, committed to a nap. 

“Hey, you ready to go in the lake?” Ian had snuck up on him, how a giant ginger could sneak up on anyone was beyond Mickey, but he was _stealthy_.

“You want me to watch you swim in a lake and get eaten by Nessie? Sure thing.” 

“Nuh-uh. You’re comin in.”

“Pretty sure I’m not. Unless this is your plan to drown me and take my dog.”

Ian scoffed, “Mickey, I want to teach you how _not_ to drown. I even have a life vest for you.” He produced a bright orange life vest, complete with a myriad of white straps that looked complicated.

Feelings still smarting from the memories of high school and their shared youth, Mickey realized he would agree to pretty much anything Ian suggested at the moment. 

“Sure, fine. But if I die, _you_ have to tell Mandy. And AJ. And you can’t date Austin, no matter what.”

Ian put up his fingers in a half-assed salute. “Scout’s honor.”

Mickey couldn’t resist, he reached out and tickled Gallagher’s long torso, still knowing just the right spot to make him grin and curl up and giggle.

“Hey, hey! No tickling!”

It was a short, blessedly downhill, walk to the lake. Tina had opted to stay at the campsite, sleeping at AJ’s feet as Mickey’s sponsor lounged with a cigar.

The lake was mostly deserted, though the day was hot. Gallagher peeled off his tank and shorts, leaving him in [ blue board shorts ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c8/23/a1/c823a1a6bdf6bddd67d2e78f0c8f2f76.png) that hung a little low on his hips, showing off his v-line and returning six-pack. Well, eight-pack, if Mickey was honest. Cause he’d counted. Ian hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his hair was wildly curly. Just looking at him made Mickey want to [ bite his lip ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/e40edb001f43689de8967c007c828953/tenor.gif) like a fuckin Hallmark channel heroine. Instead of daydreaming about his boyfriend, he pulled off his tee shirt, and crossed his arms, waiting to see how this would play out.

Ian stepped to the edge of the water, and then without ado, walked in, until he was hip-deep in the murky water. “S’not too cold, come on in!” He waved his hands encouragingly at Mickey, who just stared at him. 

“Seriously? That shit looks dirty.”

“It’s just the sediment, once it settles, you’ll see how clear this water is. Promise.”

Slowly, Mickey shrugged on the life vest, and figured out the straps before putting one toe in the water, then yanking it back. “What the fuck, Gallagher? That’s cold!”

“Only at first. Besides,” he eyed Mickey speculatively, “I can warm you up.”

“You did not just use that cheesy line on me.” Mickey stood with both feet in the chilly water, waiting for his body to adjust, or for hypothermia to carry him off.

“I did. Did it work?”

“Whatever, man.” He kept taking tiny steps forward, arms crossed, hands buried in his armpits like he was outside in February without a coat. When the water reached his balls, he had to jump up and down a few times at the shock and discomfort. “Fucking _hell_ , Gallagher, if my dick freezes and falls off, you know I’m gonna rip yours off too, right?”

“I know enough to ignore your threats. C’mere.” Ian put his hand out, and when Mickey grabbed it, he found himself pulled deeper into the water until it was mid chest on him, mid abs on the taller man. 

_Stupid tall motherfucker._

Mickey stood on his toes, still bouncing lightly, trying to let his body acclimate.

“Any better?” Ian inquired, voice still far too chipper for Mickey’s liking.

“No!” 

_Maybe a little_. 

But he wasn’t ready to admit that. In the deeper water, the only sediment and mud kicked up stayed by their feet, and Mickey was surprised to see that Gallagher had been right, the water was fairly clear. 

Then he felt something cold and slimy brush past his calf and he nearly leaped into Ian’s arms. “Something fucking touched me!”

Ian held him up by the forearms, pressed against his chest. “It was probably just some seaweed or a fish.”

“Or a shark.”

“No sharks in the lake.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“I’m being serious. You’re more likely to feel a plant than a fish, most of the fish here are like, tiny.”

Mickey grunted instead of replying and pushed away, standing on his own again, but Ian was unperturbed. “You ready to learn how to swim?”

“Guess so.”

Ian spent a few minutes explaining how to float, before Mickey interrupted him.

“Floating ain’t swimming. Dead bodies can float. Thought you were gonna teach me to swim- you know, move with intent?” He made a swimmy, back-and-forth kind of hand gesture.

Ian offered a cocky [ grin ](https://data.whicdn.com/images/282711000/original.gif), “Yeah, but the first step is learn how to move with the water-”

“-Which means floating,” Mickey finished the sentence.

“Yup. So I’m gonna be right here, holding you up, and you’ll have the vest, so you just have to trust the process.”

“That sounds very woo-woo, man. I dunno, ‘trust the process’?”

“I thought it sounded better than trust your body.”

“Touche.” 

Holding onto Ian’s arm, Mickey lifted one foot, then the other from the bottom of the lake. His ass immediately started to sink, and only his grip on the other man’s bicep and the vest kept his face from sinking under the surface. He came up sputtering, though barely wet above the ears.

“What the fuck was that?”

“You gotta relax your body, Mickey.” Ian was clearly holding in a laugh, “You were putting all your weight, excuse my language, in your ass, so of course it sank. Spread out, like a starfish.”

Mickey kept feeling the lifevest was trying to choke him: he hated the sensation of creeping, rising constriction around his neck and finally started yanking the buckles off and threw the offending object to shore. Without it, he actually had a better feel for his body, and eventually Mickey was floating on his back with Ian’s support in the water, which didn’t even feel that cold anymore. The trick had been to consciously relax his spine and neck. The movement felt strangely familiar, until he realized it was the same mental effort at physical relaxation he used when he was opening himself up with his fingers. He did not share _that_ observation with Gallagher. 

Still holding his arm, Ian leaned down to drop a soft kiss on his lips, face suddenly blocking out the sun for Mickey, looking like all the light in the sky was coming from him for just a moment. 

Mickey tried to press up to the kiss and found himself sinking, but Ian hauled him back up, helping him reset his float one foot at a time. 

“Hey, Mick?” Ian’s voice was nostalgic, but sadly so.

“I’m right here, man.” Mickey’s ears were mostly under the water, so he could hear Gallagher’s voice through the liquid, not distorted but far away nonetheless.

“You know, when I wasn’t taking my meds, still living at home, we had that old pool.”

Mickey waited. It was easier to wait in the water, he felt like maybe he was made of water. 

“And I just remember [ floating ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Ijhf2LsZiJc/hqdefault.jpg) in the nasty dead leaves and scummy water, wishing you were there. Or that I was dead. We hadn’t talked in a few years by then, but I just had this thought, like, if Mickey were here, it would be ok.”

Water waited.

“I know that’s not true. You wouldn’t have been able to fix me, but I just- I just mean, the whole time we weren’t together, I wanted you to be with me. I thought about you, like, all the time. I had whole conversations with you. Not like delusions, though. Just in my imagination.” he rushed to add.

“No, I know.” Mickey reassured him. “I had a version of you with me, too. Made- made things easier.”

“Yeah?”

“When I came out to my dad. I was havin this whole fight with you in my head, cause you thought I was a pussy, that I was hiding. I just knew you’d be [ pushing ](https://i1.wp.com/www.nerdsandbeyond.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Mickey-Milkovich-Pride-article-3.gif?resize=377%2C212) me to stop being a coward, and tell my ~~da~~ \- Terry.”

“And that made shit _easier_?”

“Eh, not really. He really beat the shit out of me that night, we both shoulda gone to jail. But I felt like- like you would be [ proud ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/342b5d78eb92031ee033128566c02397/tumblr_n6ez1fxX8V1s6h6bxo1_r1_1280.gif) of me, so it didn’t matter how much he hurt me.”

“I am proud of you, you know that, right? Getting clean, staying clean. Doing all this, for real. Really fuckin proud of you, Mick.”

Ian's voice continued, from a different day, months and months ago, echoing in his head.

_I’m pretty sure I’ll be in love with you until I die. You’re it for me._

Now AJ, another voice in his head.

_That’s what happens when you love and care about someone._

What could he say to all that? He didn't know, didn't have the words yet.

Mickey was glad he had the water holding him up, supporting his whole body, because his own legs, on land? Wouldn’t be working right now. 

The conversation ebbed. Mickey had gotten the floating thing down enough that he could do it without immediately sinking every time Ian let go, so the taller man dunked his red hair under the water, coming up in a float of his own. They floated next to each other, just watching the clouds, but their limbs and bodies kept trying to come together, like iron filings and magnets. Finally out of both expediency and longing, Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand, and they [ floated like that ](https://assets3.thrillist.com/v1/image/2559819/1200x630), not talking. 

Mickey broke the silence.

“This is your higher power shit, right?”

“Huh?” Ian didn’t seem to get it.

“This,” Mickey raised his free hand and gestured, careful not to disturb his body position, “connection to the universe shit.”

“I hadn’t really thought of that, but yeah, it is.”

“Ok. I kinda like it.”

“The floating, or the higher power?”

“Both, I think.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Despite the hot sun beating down, it was still only May, and the cold water soon had their teeth chattering. By tacit agreement, they stood and headed for the shoreline.

At the edge of the water, Mickey wrapped a towel around his waist, [ glancing ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/38/40/0d/38400db296db0b229e9a3a637395cf0f.jpg) back to see what Ian was doing. The redhead was watching him, mouth wide and eyes glazed over, and in a flash, Mickey knew _exactly_ [ what ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1281390990557937665) he’d been looking at. It felt good to see that Gallagher still wanted him that much. 

When they were younger, Mickey had always thought of Ian as the hot one, of the pair of them, never understanding what the guy saw in him. Now, with a few more years under his belt, he knew that gay men liked to look at him. He’d gotten used to the stares from other patrons in diners, when he walked away, or the gaze at his lips from men on the bus. 

_Objectively_ , he knew he had certain attributes that were appealing, but after his childhood of abuse, and his early adulthood of hiding, trying so hard to be invisible, it still felt new and shiny to be seen as sexy, as hot.

Gallagher stood on the edge of the water, hair everywhere and dripping.

“C’mere, you look like a fuckin’ [ wet rat ](http://rebloggy.com/post/1k-mine-kiss-5x10-2k-4k-3k-mickey-milkovich-ian-gallagher-hellooooo-shameless-sp/114370464412).” He wrapped the dry towel around Ian’s shoulders, pulling him in for what he intended to be a quick kiss. Instead, somehow, it deepened, until his jaw was wide and his lips were chasing Ian’s fingers gripping wet flesh. He pulled back to breath, and realized what had happened. Shaking his head, he stepped back, and toweled himself off briskly, not looking at Ian’s face, not needing to see the happiness there echoing his own expression.

* * *

### (Saturday Afternoon - Ian)

[ Wildflower by The National Parks ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulbK9aAIfsQ)

Ian [ faced ](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/1027000142661148673/XlDFt9w6.jpg) Mickey on the lake’s edge, watching how the sunlight lit up his hair and the faint freckles across his nose as he rubbed the towel over his arms and legs, and just drank him in, feeling safe and happy in a way he couldn’t remember ever being before. With his hair dark and wet, his clear [ blue ](https://images.8tracks.com/cover/i/011/901/762/tumblr_nfzbd4X2Wr1twry59o1_r1_540-4669.jpg?rect=0,67,540,540&q=98&fm=jpg&fit=max) eyes shone.

He thought back to all the times he’d tried to choose Mickey, before Mickey had wanted to be chosen. How he’d pushed and pushed and punished him, always asking for more than Mickey was willing to give, and yet always surprised when Mickey tried his best to give him whatever he could. Support, backup, a kiss, an ass kicking. 

When someone had everything, they could give it away and think nothing of it. But when someone like Mickey gave something, it _cost_ them. 

As a younger man, Ian hadn’t seen that, for whatever reason. That everything Mickey ever gave, cost something, often blood. Shame. Emotional pain. Bruises. Beatings.

Seeing him now, if not quite happy, joyous, and free, at least more openly _himself_ than ever before- it was a miracle for a man who didn’t believe in miracles. It was like the scales had dropped from his eyes, and he was seeing how Mickey had always taken care of him, yet now he was being allowed to take care of Mickey. When he was sick ( _in sickness and in health?_ ), or even just learning to float. 

Ian didn’t have a lot of healthy relationships when he was growing up to show him the ‘right way’ to be with someone. Fiona was a dead loss there, even before she split, Monica and Frank, _obviously not_. Lip made terrible choices, really only Kev and V were there to model romantic relationships, but even they had their issues. He’d always feared that without that good example, he’d be forced to repeat the unhealthy patterns he’d witnessed. 

But now, with Mickey, where they took turns being the caregiver, both needing what the other had, it felt- _fuck_ , it felt pure. 

Yes, Mickey was supposed to be this thug, totally closeted, fucked for life, son of Terry Milkovich, who had nothing good in his life, who couldn’t or wouldn’t love him back. Who couldn’t just blurt out how he felt, could never be free. But all his actions proved those assumptions wrong, or at least capable of being changed: the fact that he took care of Ian, both in the past and over their year together, showed that he was not only capable of giving love but he could also _accept_ it. Maybe it didn’t look like what Ian thought of as love, but what were his fucking data points? Maybe love looked like whatever it looked like.

Taking care of Mickey because he loved him, and Mickey just... letting him do it and loving him back: that’s all Ian had ever wanted, from the first time he’d gripped Mickey’s hand against the rack in the walk-in freezer at the Kash’N’Grab. It meant they took care of each other. 

Mickey was watching him curiously, as they finished toweling themselves off and pulled on their shirts, but he hadn’t said anything. The quiet that had developed between them was something Ian had never had before, it was empathy, affection; it was fucking love. 

They walked back to the campsite in companionable silence, no discussions, no teasing, no jokes, no flirting. Just sharing in space. He wasn’t sure what was going on in Mickey’s head, but instead of trying to mind-read, he let the other man be. It was enough.

* * *

### (Saturday Evening - Mickey)

[ Since I was young (with Kesha) - Wrabel ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJ3s_3xi674)

[ Bird Set Free - Sia ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrT_0J6m6y8)

Saturday night's meeting opened with a moment of silence, but there were no readings. Instead, every person was handed a brown paper lunch sack. The sacks were folded shut, and had something small inside, maybe sand, by the feel of them. 

Mark was leading the meeting. “Sometimes,” he began, “when I’m out in nature, I find myself more willing and able to let go of things that have been holding me back. One time, I was finally ready to quit drinking soda: four years and I’m a water man! So each of youse will throw your bag into the fire, and share what you’re lettin’ go of. It can be serious, or not, and you can explain as much or as little as you want. Anyone wanna go first?”

  
There was a long wait, as everyone shifted in their seat, the rustle of the paper bags in their hands, the sussuration of the leaves providing a background murmur.

Finally, AJ stood and stepped closer to the firepit. He held the paper bag out. “I’m AJ, and I’m an addict. I’m ready to let go of my anger towards my mother for not protecting me when I was a kid. She was doing the best she could, and she didn’t know better. I can’t keep blaming her actions for my own shitty life choices.” He tossed the bag lightly, and it landed on top of the small pyre. It took a moment for the flames to reach it, but when they did, the bag burned a mix of [ green and yellow ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWXGl_VEBWQ).

Mickey was impressed. It was a neat trick, made the gesture feel more meaningful, significant. What would Ian let go of? What was _he_ ready to release his death-grip on?

After AJ, a few more people went, many of them echoing AJ’s speech, releasing issues related to parents and family members. 

_Not fucking ready for_ **_that_ ** _yet._ _  
_ The bags all burned different, unusual colors.

Another lull in sharing descended. He swung his [ knees ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1285404311342796801) back and forth anxiously, trying to decide if what he had to say was worth saying out loud, if he was ready for everyone else to hear it, if _he_ was ready to hear himself say it.

 _Ah, fuck it_. 

He knew ‘fuck it’ wasn’t technically turning shit over to his higher power, but it still worked for him. 

Mickey stood, and approached the ring of stones surrounding the fire. He took a deep breath, inhaling the wood smoke, eyes and throat burning a little. 

“Mickey, addict.” His anxiety was ramping up, and he glanced around the circle, expecting judgement, but all he saw were open faces, people he knew. 

Gallagher’s face was a soft light in the dimness, with an [ expression ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_3_H4Xqv0Mqj30xoPeihllZqZjnwotRyx25ELK7A3wAdyXcI&s) he couldn’t quite read. “Wanna get rid of the brick wall between me and my feelings. I, uh, I built it to protect myself, but then I found out I was the one trapped behind it. Fuck the mixed metaphor. And it’s not coming down all at once, think I’ll always be a prickly-ass motherfucker with a wicked temper. But maybe I’m more than just fucked for life, more than fuck-u-up.” 

People were nodding, they got it. They got _him_. “Hopes and dreams, man, fuckin’ hopes and dreams. I have a few of ‘em now, after decades of nothing but misery and nightmares and pain.” 

He paused, thinking back to how [ dark and small and sad ](https://i.gifer.com/BIbB.gif)his life had been back then.

“Thought I’d die a long time ago, so I never made plans, never really thought about the future. Since I was young I always thought I’d die before I was a grown up, you know? Then I got clean, and now I'm more myself than I ever was, I'm fucking _happier_ than I ever was, and I’m learning to let people care for me. And uh, I’m ready for that, for more. To do it all, cause the process is a power greater than myself. Ok, that’s it, the end. Thanks for letting me share.” 

He tossed his paper bag into the fire, and it lit a brilliant purple. He stared at it, taking a moment, before he returned to his seat, deliberately not looking around at anyone, not ready to see- see what? 

_Feelings_? 

That people now knew, like, for certain, that he was soft, squishy, fucking _growing_ ? He pulled Tina up until she was sitting in his lap as he sat in the folding chair, rubbing her chest, using her warm body like a shield between him and the rest of the group. No brick wall, but getting used to a world without one was going to be rough. He blamed the [ wetness in his eyes ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdOSRdzWoAA-GfV?format=jpg&name=large) on the smoke blowing directly at his face.

Austin stood up next, and shared about letting go of ‘beating himself up for his past actions,’ which Mickey was still totally judging, but he kept his face down, in Tina’s warm coat, so hopefully no one would see. After Austin, his new paramour, Teddy stood up and shared what was effectively the exact same thing, though he tacked on an addendum about “...letting myself deserve good things and good people in my life now,” with a significant glance to Austin. Mickey could admit the two were in the throes of something, but it looked more like infatuation than, well, than _whatever_ he and Gallagher had. 

Kate stood next, and Mickey paid attention. He knew a little about her, just enough to be confused and wary. She was educated, had a well-paying job, had _kept_ the job through her using, so how the fuck had she ended up in Narcotics Anonymous?

“I’m Kate and I’m an addict. Tonight, I want to let go of the part of me that judges people for liking me.”

Mickey had to stop and think about that one, as she continued. “It’s like, as soon as I find someone interesting, I’m all in. But when they show me or, god forbid, tell me, they like me back? And I mean professionally, platonically, and romantically, my brain says ‘Mmm, sounds like they have terrible taste.’ For liking or respecting _me_? And I know it has cost me opportunities, in all those areas. So if I can’t stop the thought, I can actively speak to myself in ways that counteract it, and also not act on those negative thoughts.” With that, she crumbled her paper bag into a ball and tossed it deep into the heart of the flames, where it erupted in a gush of blue flames. 

_Do I think everyone who likes me has bad taste or poor judgement? Maybe, in the past-_

Gallagher stood up, interrupting his train of thought. 

“Hey guys, I’m an addict named Ian.” He stopped, smiling around the circle, like he was trying to charm them, win them over. 

“When I was in rehab and I was first clean, like at the very beginning, I thought I was past my peak. That I was only getting dumber, with fewer opportunities, that I’d get less hot, and shit would just keep going downhill for me, until I died. Growing up, I was always, excuse me, I _felt like_ I was always compared to my genius older brother, my older sister who took care of the whole family, to my mother, who was a fucking hurriciane cause we both have the same mental illness, like I was never allowed to _just_ be myself. Even my younger brother did the military thing better than I did, and my younger sister has the red hair too-” 

He stopped, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes. His hands rhythmically clenched and relaxed on the paper bag, crushing it over and over again.  
  


“Anyway, through recovery, and therapy, and all that, I’m thinking maybe I have hope, like instead of a rapid decline for the rest of my life, I could still, like, grow. Improve. So I’m letting go of hopelessness, of defining myself in terms of my family, of not measuring up. I was thinking maybe about looking into being an alcohol and drug counselor, or helping LGBT youth. Taking all the shit I went through and trying to turn it into diamonds, somehow.”

He tossed the crushed paper bag into the fire, just a light underhand throw that had it landing near the edge of the stone circle near where Mickey sat, not actually close enough to catch fire. Gallagher groaned, and the collective group laughed, in commiseration, not unkindly. Mickey stretched out a booted foot, holding Tina tightly so she wouldn’t slip, and toed the bag into pyre, releasing a spout of pure red. _Perfect_.

  
Ian met his eyes, a silent, wondering, [ look of thanks ](https://static.fusionmovies.to/images/character/yPOnzrxkTgkOlwWL5npH4ORrN4Quy5ykRYXqRKrY5CYMtsYMgUSB8_S-OBpSw_ZMzkXSAu9duC_2RgfpsvbH1vqKrPKaR5EXhLjW6MdVOzfmfZbYev34hBRTSQULI2WL.jpg?1) passing between them, then sat down as yet another addict stood and approached the fire to share, to release a long-held and painful part of their life.

* * *

### (Saturday Night - Mickey)

[ Inside Out: Steve Aoki, Jaehn, Jamie Scott ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcKE_bEom8M)

[ Can’t Help Falling in Love - Beck ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToGibPfk5nQ)

Mickey woke up after only a few hours, confused as to why he felt so warm in the solo tent. And also why was he scrunched up against one side of the space? Tina had opted to sleep with Aspen for the night under Dan’s hammock, plus the tent had been zippered, and now the door flap was half open. A lightning bug flew in, flashing in front of his eyes. 

Flash. Flash. Pause. Flash. Dark. Pause. Dark. Flash.

Pressed against his back, arm draped over his midsection like he was his own personal teddy bear, was Ian _fucking_ Gallagher. He didn’t have a clue when Ian crawled in the tent, normally he would have woken up at that kind of thing, but he didn’t mind- shit, it feels incredible to have him there. Their co-sleeping at his house had been weirdly platonic, not wanting to fall into old patterns, so to have Ian molded against him like this, it’s _so_ good. 

He wriggled a little, his ass, really, just testing to see how much he could move, and two things happened. First, Ian’s arm, the one over his belly, tightened, pulling him in more tightly against the hard line of Ian’s body. Second, he felt Gallagher’s hard cock pressing against the crack of his ass through the thin boxers he wore. 

_Ah, fuck._ How was he supposed to ignore that? Maybe a better man could have, but not Mickey Milkovich. 

Deliberately this time, he rolled his hips back and _down_ along the considerable length of Ian’s erect dick. The hand clasping his belly twitched, tightened, then suddenly released completely as Ian threw himself against the far side of the tent, away from Mickey. However, since the tent was only about three feet across, he couldn’t end up too far away. Mickey rolled onto his back, [ hands behind his head ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/56/d4/11/56d411a7fb561742257e2cec0c943939.jpg), a little grin playing on his lips, waiting to see what would happen. Ian stared, wide-eyed in the dark, at him. 

“What the fuck, Mickey?”

“You tell me. I woke up, you were here, rubbing that thing,” he pointed a finger at Ian’s still prominent erection, “on my ass.”

“I- maybe I sleep-walked?”

“And sleep-unzipped the tent and climbed in? Sure, bro.” Mickey was laughing to himself, but trying to not to make it too obvious.

He had been holding back, holding out, walking a fine line between temptation and pleasure for literally months and if fate wanted to dump a half-naked alien-looking redhead in his ‘bed’ in the middle of the night, who was he to disagree?

“You shoulda woken me up! I should-”

“-Get your ass over here, Gallagher,” Mickey interrupted.

“Wait, what?”

“I only know English, so I can’t say it any other way. Come back here.” Mickey made sure to flex his shirtless torso a little, so Ian could see that he was shirtless with _intent_ ; muscles and skin and the scattering of freckles were being offered up to kiss and touch and explore. Ian gaped, and then dove until he was straddling Mickey with an expression like he was an insomniac calling now to get two SlapChops for the price of one from a late night infomercial.

Gallagher’s hands went automatically to Mickey’s wrists, not holding him _down_ , but holding him nonetheless. Mickey released a breath and tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding flowed out of him as he arched up a little, lifting his chin to try and [ tempt ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Eda7yZiWoAMboEt?format=jpg&name=medium) Gallagher to kiss him.

When had kissing become so vital to him? Back then, as a younger man, the only person he actually enjoyed kissing was Ian, though his brothers always droning on about it had made him try it with a woman, once. Her slobbery drool, the taste of her fruit-flavored lip-gloss, and her passivity were all utterly unappealing. But Gallagher’s mouth was _different_ , somehow. He didn’t taste sweet, they had rarely got to kiss fresh from the toothbrush, but it never mattered. It was a kiss of equals, a small war for dominance that had no winner and no loser.

Ian’s face was right above his, eyes searching his face, reminding Mickey of their [ first kiss ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/74/6f/f9/746ff94245ed0231155f36852cf92984.gif), that afternoon so many years ago, in the van when he’d surprised him. Ian switched his grip, and suddenly both of Mickey’s hands were captured in one of Ian’s, his free hand coming down to lay gently against Mickey’s cheek, cupping his face and jaw.

Despite all the time that had passed, it was still Mickey’s move to make, and he surged up, straining his shoulders, pressing their lips together until Ian unfroze, mouth opening in welcome, hot tongue licking out to meet his. Mickey concentrated on making Ian feel good, nipping at his bottom lip, kissing just his philtrum, the licking into his mouth. The [ kiss ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/35073894547f47bf0f75d497ff9ff9d2/tenor.gif?itemid=15821790) escalated from there, hips lining up, and their hard cocks slotting together, just rutting against each other until the pressure became too great.

Ian finally released his wrists, sliding his hands down, until he was grasping Mickey’s ass, huge handfuls of it, and then with his whole body, _twisting-_

Intellectually, Mickey understood the intention: it was to get him on top. But Gallagher hadn’t accounted for the world’s smallest tent. As Mickey came _up_ , his foot caught the still partially opened zipper door, snagging on it. As they rolled, the whole tent rolled with them, blankets, loose clothing, and accessories tumbling. It was loud in the calm night, and the two of them lay for a moment, panting in unison. 

Mickey broke first, just giggling into his fist like a little girl, and Ian followed suit. Their limbs were tangled together, but basically in the arrangement Gallagher had been aiming for, Mickey on top of him. 

Mickey leaned down, kissing him urgently, when Ian suddenly pulled back, face unreadable in the darkness of the tent. There looked like- _discomfort_ , maybe in the lines of his body. 

_Shit_. He knew this had been a bad idea. Mickey sat back on his heels, still having to crouch a little to avoid smacking his head on the ‘roof’ of the tent, utterly furious at himself, at NA, at the universe.

“Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed out, “I’ll just-”

Ian twisted one arm up behind him and came out with a [ plastic dog bowl ](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/81WIcO34anL._SR500,500_.jpg) that he’d apparently landed on.

“I’m guessing there’s now kibble all over the place too, right?” Ian’s voice was low and teasing. The tension in Mickey’s body bled out and he relaxed. Ian wasn’t pulling away from _him_ , from this. 

“Yeah, man. Tina’s gonna eat us for breakfast if we’re not careful.” Before Ian could run with that statement, Mickey leaned down, capturing Ian’s mouth with his own, hands tracing from chest to obliques, until he could tug down Ian’s boxers and grasp his cock. 

Ian gasped a little, as Mickey used his free hand to shove down his own sleep shorts. Hissing, Ian wrapped his big stupid hand around both of their cocks, pressing them together.

“Fuck, Mick, you’re so hot. So wet,” Ian’s fingers found the precum drooling from the tip of Mickey’s cock and spread it on both of them, as Mickey rocked his hips, feeling the slide of slick flesh on flesh. Ian nearly sobbed as Mickey ground into his lap, curling up to keep their lips aligned, one hand supporting him and the other holding their dicks together, slowly slipping up and down with steady pressure and that little twist at the top. 

It felt good, _too good_. Ian clearly felt the same, because he pulled his hands back, groaning. Mickey ached to feel him again.

“Don’t wanna come like this, I want to taste you, Mickey, please, can I? Will you let me?”

Let it never be said that Mickey Milkovich wasn’t a giver. Fucking _selfless_. 

He and Ian scrambled, until Mickey knelt on his front, like he was praying to the altar of some dirty deity, Ian kneeling between his thighs. Mickey waited, expectantly, for something, anything, but when he craned his head back, he saw Ian just staring, wiping his mouth absently.

“Hey, Gallagher, you gonna stare at it or you gonna do _something_ ?” Mickey tried to sound tough but he couldn’t keep the needy whine out of his voice as he nibbled at [ his lip ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/adb1502427e7a2b584f9cfd8a73e8f64/tumblr_nuejytTZav1tsq6qjo2_500.gifv) in anticipation of whatever Ian was going to offer him. 

One hand reached out and slapped his right ass cheek, watching the way the flesh wobbled slightly. Ian repeated the action on the other side as Mickey huffed out a breath. It didn’t hurt, and knowing how much it was turning Ian on felt pretty decent. One warm hand reached forward, [ pressing ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f3fb1c5df3cd2303cec24b0bf251eabd/tumblr_moyeebN6An1s9cbooo1_250.gif) Mickey’s chest further down, raising his ass and spine up for Ian’s perusal.

Out of nowhere, he felt Ian’s [ lips ](https://tvguide1.cbsistatic.com/feed/1/43/thumbs/11822043_c375x1200+1012+300_375x1200.jpg) tracing his lower back, muttering between hot kisses and licks. “These [ dimples ](https://twitter.com/smileyroeim/status/1282066074167660549), Mick, god, I dreamed about these dimples.”

“Oh, that’s what you dreamed about?” Mickey was trying to keep the thread of the conversation, but Ian’s mouth was everywhere, scraping his teeth across Mickey’s skin, breath ghosting over his flesh. Biting and mouthing at the apex of his ass, where his spine ended, wet tongue wiggling, sliding downwards, making Mickey sigh.

The mutters had turned into murmurs that Mickey strained his ears to catch, not wanting to interrupt the flow of praise and filth flowing from Gallagher’s mouth. 

“Your ass-”

The phrase was punctuated with a long, flat-tongue lick down his crack.

“-Gonna reclaim you so you’ll never forget-”

Ian’s tongue just brushing over his rim, then pushing its way inside to his heat.

“-want you to feel wanted-”

Lips sucking, tongue lapping, pointing and working its way inside him.

“-fucking treasured-”

Now he had his hands, those giant hands, pulling Mickey’s cheeks apart, one eager finger beside his tongue, crooked into Mickey’s hole, seeking that spot.

“-Want you sitting on my face for hours-”

It was like he was fucking Mickey with his tongue, and Mickey could feel the heat pooling at the base of his again, cock hard and pressed between his stomach and the yoga mat, precum making him a slippery mess there, Ian’s spit dripping down his balls on the other side. So fucking _dirty_ , he loved this.

“-before I slide into you-”

Two fingers sliding in and out, scissoring and twisting, while Ian’s tongue sweetly coated his rim, keeping it slick, just the slightest feeling of stretch, not even a burn. One long digit brushed against his prostate and Mickey’s body nearly bowed, which Ian took as a sign to repeat the action, stroking back and forth over the pronounced bit of flesh as he thrust with his tongue.

“-so wet and open for me-”

Without warning, Mickey came apart then, totally untouched, just Ian’s voice in his ears, tongue and fingers in his ass- biting his own forearm to muffle the noises threatening to come pouring out of his mouth, the moans and the curses and the declarations of love. It was a shock, but a year ( _or more_ , his brain helpfully added) of build-up had to come out somehow. Ian rode him through the aftershocks, tongue never stopping, fingers delving until Mickey had to pull away, rocking forward with over-sensitivity. 

Ian sat back on his haunches, watching avidly as Mickey flipped over, using a tee shirt near at hand to wipe the mixture of come and spit from himself. 

“Fucking hell, Gallagher.” Mickey was finally able to get the words out, the stars fading from in front of his eyes.

“Yeah?” Ian’s face had a [ wide ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdX4ll0XgAAIQuu?format=jpg&name=360x360), toothy grin, even as his cock stood, still straining against his belly.

“You wanna get on me, or smile at each other like a couple of clowns?”

Ian’s face fell a little at that, though his erection didn’t flag. “Didn’t bring anything. Wanna fuck you but-”

Pointlessly, Mickey rifled through the debris around him, but even as he did so he knew unless AJ had left an old condom and packet of lube in the tent, he wouldn’t find anything. His searches led him face first to Gallagher’s dick, and he paused, glancing up, [ biting ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7713c520416da688fa28572cbff1cd07/tumblr_n2qycnJZOI1rs25p4o4_250.gif) his lip one canine and cocking his eyebrows in invitation. 

Ian was looking pointedly at Mickey’s mouth, and like he couldn’t resist touching it, trailing his thumb along the plush [ curve ](https://i.gifer.com/EBYG.gif) of Mickey’s bottom lip. Mickey was more than happy to oblige, sucking the thumb into his hot mouth, flicking it with his tongue while maintaining eye contact, blue on green, the whole time, until Gallagher blinked first, then stared at the roof of the tent. 

“You ok?” Mickey had moved, and was mouthing along the long line of Ian’s cock, but he still managed to get the words out, wanting to keep Gallagher in the moment.

“Yeah, yes. My head- you know.” The quaver in Ian’s voice spoke volumes.

“You want me to stop?” Mickey pulled his face away from where he’d been just nosing along at Ian’s balls.

“God, no. Just need to stay, uh, present.”

“Ok, uh-” Mickey thought quickly. “Talk me through it. Tell me what you want me to do, how it feels, whatever.”

“And if I say stop, or whatever, it’s not cause of you, ok Mickey? It’s a little complicated and shit.”

“K.” Mickey didn’t pry, didn’t ask for details. He just waited, committed to keeping Ian in the moment, Mickey waited, eyes nearly crossing as he stared at Ian’s substantial cock, right in front of him. His mouth watered, and his own cock gave a little flex, registering his interest. _Down, boy._

“Um, ok, lick?” Ian’s voice was unsure, longing mixed with shame and fear. Mickey wanted to erase that sound from the universe. It was like when Ian was focused on Mickey’s pleasure, he was mindless with it, but now that it was about just Ian, it was a completely different experience. Gallagher’s hands weren’t moving, just fisted at his sides, tension evident in his shoulders. He started with little kitten licks, up the inside of the thigh, along the rough hair there, then to the seam where his torso started. He slid his tongue and lips up, blowing softly over the heated skin until he was twisting his tongue around Ian’s shaft, dragging the top of his tongue, with all its ridges, lightly trying to see what kind of response he could elicit. 

“Can you- put your mouth on it?” Ian was _far_ too capable of producing complete sentences for Mickey’s liking, he wanted the man to be consumed in the experience. Glancing up again, making his eyes big and wide, he let the broad head of Ian’s dick rest on his tongue like it was a plush pillow, reminding him of all his fantasies, breathing on it lightly but not doing more yet.

Ian gave him half a smirk at the literal interpretation of the request, “Can you _do_ something, please, Mickey?” He started by reaching for one of Ian’s hands, bringing it to rest on his own head, pressing it there as if he were silently instructing Ian to keep it there. Ian exhaled deeply, still waiting.

Instead of teasing further, Mickey closed his lips, creating suction, swirling his tongue around the head, bringing one hand up to grasp Gallagher’s thick shaft. 

Above him, Ian let loose a soft sound that made Mickey’s heart ache a little, but he continued, not focused on technique, so much as enthusiasm and energy. He let the spit gather in the corners of his mouth as he bobbed his head, letting Ian’s cock hit the back of his throat, gagging himself on it, really, until there were tears standing at the corners of his eyes.

The green eyes, which had been staring down at Mickey, pupils blown, glazed over and closed again. _Where was he, in his mind?_

Mickey doubted it was somewhere good, so he dug his nails into Ian’s stomach, clawlike, getting Ian’s eyes to pop wide and entirely present. 

With his left hand, he reached down, more gently now, tracing the thick scar on Ian’s upper thigh. Pulling off of his cock with a slurping noise, he spoke quietly, “This is from when you jumped the fence behind the Alibi when you were eight, right?” Ian nodded wordlessly, and Mickey resumed his oral ministrations: sucking, licking, swirling his tongue on the sensitive area where the head met the shaft. Whatever part of Gallagher’s dick he couldn’t cram into his throat, he rubbed and stroked with the palm of his other hand, in sync with his mouth and tongue. He kept looking up, keeping Ian there by force of eye contact, trying to convey _feelings and shit._

Ian was releasing little, breathy phrases Mickey was catching parts of, “loved you the second I laid eyes on you,” and, “you and me forever,” like they were being pulled from him by the suction power of Mickey’s throat. 

_Must be good at this shit, still, to make him spill those pretty words._

He brought his free hand up, cupping and rolling Ian’s balls in his palm, running his fingers through the thick dark hair there. Dragging his nails lightly down the firm torso- that got a reaction, Gallagher sucking in a breath, making those muscles tightened under Mickey’s fingers. 

Ian’s hips were moving along with Mickey’s hand now doing some of the work, fucking Mickey’s face and mouth in long steady strokes, pulling his head forward with the large, warm palm on the back of his skull. He could taste the precum in his mouth, knew Gallagher was into it.

The play-by-play had changed, but Mickey was still only catching parts of the whispered praises that his mind refused to believe, “I’m gonna love you the way you deserve.” 

_Damn, that one felt good,_ even if part of his mind rejected the reality of Gallagher’s statement, all mixed up in self-esteem issues, and discomfort with love. 

_Breakin that brick wall down, piece by piece, word by word._

“God, Mick, you’re so good, so fuckin good,” the rhythm of Ian’s hips was changing, more forceful and arrhythmic as he chased his climax. Mickey widened his eyes, trying to stay focused, making sure Ian was present, not lost in some tortuous memory. 

Gallagher stuttered out one last, sweet promise, “Always loved you, always will,” his hold on Mickey’s head tightened convulsively and he spilled deep in his throat. Mickey swallowed, maintaining the eye contact, letting his throat milk every drop, his whole body filling with the warm glow of pride.

Ian crashed down after that, just bonelessly melting over Mickey, half his weight on Mickey’s chest, the rest on a heap of debris, clothing, and blankets. Unfortunately, it was his turn to get caught on a loose tent strap, and the whole contraption nearly fell around them again, ending up twisted further askew.

“Jesus, you fuckers, other people exist, maybe?” The curse came from a nearby tent, and both men held their breath for a moment, waiting for further complaints or investigation. When none came, they shared a [ fond smile ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0495810bef68551a77386c5093f54949/cfa5b4e788cfca33-b6/s500x750/573cf245f9fff9c661d06a043ad7474b6188fec4.gifv) , Ian’s hand cupping Mickey’s cheek as they both leaned in, noses touching for a small [ kiss ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1275490261829931012).

“Never thought I’d have this again, have you again, you and your dick voodoo,” Ian whispered against his lips. 

“I’m right here, not going anywhere.” Mickey assured him. “Get some sleep, ok?”

Ian seemed to fall asleep almost immediately, but Mickey stayed awake for a while, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling his warmth, thinking about all the night’s words.

_I’m gonna love you the way you deserve._

Dick voodoo, indeed.

_I'm more myself than I ever was, fucking happier than I ever was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Captain Sixth Step is something I heard in a meeting. I have NO clue what it means, so I won't bullshit you, I just liked the way it sounded.  
> 2\. Everyone awesome in this fic is based on a real, wonderful person. Everyone who acts shitty is entirely fictional.  
> 3\. 'Happy, joyous, and free' is a phrase that gets thrown around a lot in recovery, it comes from various pieces of official literature. It made sense to me that Ian would latch onto that as a goal.  
> 4\. There is a huge section of the swimming scene that wouldn't exist without PeppaSpice, to whom I am immeasurably grateful. The fic wouldn't exist at all or have ANY smut without EmpressRegnant, because I was ready to give up on the whole sexy-tent-scene. Thank you both! (If the smut is bad, blame me.)  
> 5\. You can buy the cool-fire bags online or make your own; they're very impressive.  
> 6\. "the process is a power greater than myself" means that sometimes, for people who struggle to identify a higher power, the very process of recovery is a higher power. Plus, I like process oriented thinking/growth mindset stuff.  
> 7\. Did I look up morse code for this chapter? Obviously.  
> 8\. Mickey has a year now, so he's kinda 13th stepping Ian here. But only technically, since 13th stepping is more about a power imbalance than a calendar date.  
> 9\. The slapchop thing is inspired by a Marvel fic I love.  
> 10\. Ian lying uncomfortably on the dog bowl is a spin on a scene from Sexual Harassment in the Workplace.  
> 11\. Credit for various other gifs and ideas are linked to the creators on Twitter.  
> 12\. Happy 100k+ words!


	29. Memorial Day Weekend - Sunday/Monday - TRIGGER WARNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Final Day of Camping and also Ian’s One-Year celebration! Please note that there is a section that draws heavily on 3x06, including a link to a brief video, as well a separate section that also deals with potentially triggering content. PLEASE do not hesitate to skip them. Beta was away this week moving, so all errors and trauma are me. Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter flowed really easily. It has scenes I mad in mind from the inception of the fic, plus a few surprises (for me.)  
> \---  
> Comments comments comments comments?  
> \---  
> HEED THE NEW TAGS AND WARNINGS!!  
> \---  
> The final chapter will take me some time, so don't expect this to complete until the end of the upcoming week.  
> \---  
> If you catch a mistake, let me know so I can fix it.  
> Recovery questions? Ask away!  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!

* * *

_**(Sunday Morning - Ian)** _

[ Follow you, follow me - Genesis ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9zj11gf9Qk)

Ian woke up [ curled together ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EccgNXzXYAEOXQv?format=jpg&name=small) with Mickey, mostly warm but feeling a rock pressing into his kidney, and that his feet were frozen. Glancing down, he saw his feet sticking out of the blankets, and the night came back to him. Looking around, he could see the tent looked like a tornado had hit it, all cattywampus and half-fallen down. Anyone walking by would see _something_ had happened.

He still wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten in Mickey’s tent, but even after what they’d done, and the interruption, he was grateful to have ended up there. 

_But how would Mickey be feeling about it? Did he expect Ian to have already snuck out? Were they going to stand up and greet the world, practically announcing to everyone what had happened? How would Michelle react?_

Mickey’s thick lashes fluttered, opened halfway, then slid closed again. Ian poked him in the ribs with a finger.

“Hey, Milkovich. Wake up.”

Mickey’s eyes flew open and he glared at Ian.

“[ What the fuck ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/c28988e7236475adc4f8ecb6b5f9ebc3/tenor.gif?itemid=10695110)?”

_Was he really irate? Or just cranky from being woken up suddenly?_

Ian decided to test it out, so he nuzzled down against Mickey again, purring.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Mickey grimaced, but when Ian’s hand snaked down to his crotch, his face relaxed. Until the roaming fingers found the crusted, dried, mess from the night before in the dark trail of hair from his navel on down. 

“Oh, gross. I need to piss and clean this shit up.” Mickey sat up, head bumping the current top of the tent, which had been the side the day before. 

Ian released him, and lay there watching. Morning Mickey was rapidly becoming one of his favorite looks. 

Mickey had started untangling himself from the blankets and accoutrements that had been tossed around in the night. He stopped, one hand on a notebook. Well, it looked like a notebook, but the dimensions looked _off_ to Ian. It was flipped open, and the top page had some kind of picture on it, with the corner torn. Mickey was pressing the torn corner back up, back together, with his finger tips, over and over.

“Hey, Mickey, whatcha got there?”

Mickey pulled the notebook tightly to his chest. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“Ey, fuck you, ok? It’s private.”

That had Ian’s attention. 

_What could it be? Was it porn?_

He didn’t want to push Mickey, but part of him wanted, _needed_ , to know what was being hidden. 

_Boundaries._

Mickey kept setting them and Ian kept blowing right through them. 

He wanted Mickey to feel safe with him, but how could he if Ian didn’t respect his wishes? It was just that sometimes, it felt like Mickey really _did_ want him in every little, nasty, private corner of his life, like he _wanted_ Ian to push his way in, to prove he was interested, that Mickey mattered. 

_Ugh, this was too much, too early._

He realized they’d both been sitting in silence for a minute, lost in their own inner landscapes. 

Finding the half-zippered tent flap, Ian opened it up all the way, and gestured, intent on letting Mickey out first. But he’d forgotten Mickey couldn’t just waltz out into the woods naked. Ian had put his shorts back on the night before, but now Mickey grabbed the first piece of clothing he could put his hands on, a pair of red, white, and blue striped boxers.

Ian [ grinned ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C5kOpqtUsAAzcQX?format=jpg&name=900x900) and tossed him a half-assed salute.

“The fuck you doin, Gallagher?”

“Guess I’m a patriot.”

  
  


Mickey flipped him off, still struggling to get the boxers on in the cramped quarters. He had laid back down, pulling them up over his hips and raising his ass, when Ian leaned down quickly, grabbing his face, and [ kissing ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1285074598434758656) him. 

It started slowly, but then Mickey brought on hand to the back of Ian’s head, pulling him in more tightly, despite the odd angle, his other hand roaming over Ian’s bare back and shoulder, deepening the kiss’s intensity. Ian went with it for a minute, loving the feeling of lightning racing through his veins, the way kissing Mickey always made him feel, but more so now, as memories of the night before still danced in his mind. Then he pressed one hand to Mickey’s chest and straightened, Mickey’s mouth trying to chase him up before releasing his lips with an audible, explosive, click. 

Ian turned, and exited the tent without looking back, though he knew Mickey had an open, dazedly happy [ expression ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6a/13/6c/6a136c064b102f27d32340f5d27d7497.jpg) on his face.

* * *

[ Made for This - The Phantoms ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8yw6F7DiFs)

  
  


Entering the camp circle proper, Ian felt eyes on him. Kate was watching him, a raised eyebrow and wry grin on her expressive face. Her purple hair was effectively in a mohawk of bedhead, so he didn’t feel like she had a lot of room to cast aspersions.

“Good night, Ian? You sleep ok?” Kate inquired, voice saccharine sweet.

“Sure.”

“You weren’t cold or anything?”

“Uh, no?”

“Cause our tent flap was wide open when I woke up, so I just assumed you went and slept alone in the woods. Musta been chilly, though, huh?”

_Oh, shit._

Kate knew. Kate knew where he’d spent the night, and of course she assumed she knew exactly what had happened. Better to bluff back?

“I found a spot. Kept warm, thanks for the concern.” His tone of voice was anything but sincere.

“Did you now? Whereabouts?”

Mickey had gotten out of the destroyed tent finally, and was walking up behind her. He quickly seemed to realize what the conversation entailed, because he started making wild hand movements at Ian that clearly meant ‘[ Please just- stop talking ](https://twitter.com/Micksthugappeal/status/1276811310584303616).’

Ian wasn’t about to stop. 

“Oh you know, a gentleman never tells.” He gave Kate a very small [ half-smile ](https://i.skyrock.net/5230/95675230/pics/3273598542_1_2_uElGbjfU.gif), winking at her in a way that was more malevolent than flirty.

Rolling her eyes, Kate turned and nearly ran into Mickey standing behind her. 

“You love that asshole?” 

Mickey glanced around, checking to see if she was actually talking to him. 

She nodded impatiently.

“[ Maybe, I don’t know ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/FatFortunateCockatiel-small.gif) .” The answer came out fast, like he was nervous to say it out loud in public. But he’d said it clearly, and out loud. _In public._

“Well you better.” She shook her index finger first at Ian, then at Mickey. “You guys just better love each other! Sneaking into a tent in the middle of the night- you two aren’t _slick_. We’re all addicts here, we know every scam in the book. Plus you guys are pretty damn loud when you’re having a good time.”

The [ look ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/luvthatdrtywata/14770536/563026/563026_original.gif) on Mickey’s face, it wasn’t panic; it was like a lightning bolt had struck him. 

“Hey, Kate?” She swung back to face Ian’s silky-smooth voice. “Shut up, ok? We already did 12 months of performative bullshit for all of you, so if you could butt the fuck out of our relationship from now on, I’d really appreciate it.”

Her face was shocked, but he didn’t really care. He strode over to Mickey, glancing in his eyes, just to look and check for permission. Those deep blue eyes said it all, said _yes_ , said _always_ . He kissed Mickey on the cheek, and they both shot Kate the [ finger ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EMYA64DXsAA9FKj.jpg).

* * *

(Sunday Morning - Mickey) 

[ As Long as You’re Happy - Cub Sport ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiW0lE_hFk8&list=RDWzjPvh6yuY8&index=14)

Everyone seemed to be waking up a little later than expected, then rushing around packing up before the last morning meeting. 

Mark and Michelle had managed a hot breakfast at last, eggs, bacon, sausages (both real and vegan), biscuits that someone must have woken up before dawn to build the fire up for, and endless supplies of coffee. Kate had retreated to lick her wounds in her tent. _Nosy fuckin cunt._ In his mind, the words had a bitter taste, but he washed them away with coffee. 

Mickey had gotten washed up and then fully dressed, retrieved and fed Tina, and was lounging in a folding chair with a mug and a cigarette, as happy as he could remembering being in - fuck, in years. Even after the scene with Kate, he felt… lighter. Free.

_This was better than the pills. Better than the coke, or the molly Mandy had given him a few times. Bein’ in the woods with Gallagher, a whole bunch of addicts, a good orgasm, his dog..._

He glanced down fondly at Tina, knowing she was _his_ , that he’d find the cash somehow to make it official soon.

Across the campsite, his eye was caught by Ian’s bright hair as the man stood, carrying a few duffle bags towards the cars. That was part of his good mood too, feeling like for once in his fucking life, he and Gallagher were on the same page. No more of this wrong time, wrong person, wrong place, bullshit. 

_Right time, right person, right place._

_Gonna love you the way you deserve._

_Right here and right now._

* * *

_**(Sunday Morning - Mickey)** _

[ The Night We Met - Lord Huron ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU)

[ Inside - Moby ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=531MZcx_y6o)

The Sunday morning meeting was shorter than the other had been, everyone a little anxious to head back. Instead of a sharing meeting, it was a meditation meeting. Dan gave a quick little run down about the purpose of meditation on recovery, and set his timer for ten minutes. Then they all closed their eyes, lay their heads back or sat up straight, feet flat or folded, hands open or closed. Around them, the ambient natural sounds kept Ian’s mind engaged. 

After a surprisingly short time, the meeting ended, and everyone dispersed to finish the last-minute packing and trekking of gear to the office parking spot. Soon, the campsite had cleared out, aside from the cook-tent, where Michelle, Ian, and Kate were clearing away the last items, double checking to make sure the fire pits were clean and dead, while AJ paced out the perimeter, checking for lost items. Micky was at loose ends, unwilling to go to the tent and be around Kate, but also not interested in being out of sight of Gallagher. 

Finally, even the stragglers were gone, AJ and Ian had packed Michelle and Kate into Michelle’s Subaru and then walked down to the parking lot to bring up AJ’s SUV. Tina was off her leash, circling Mickey slowly, sniffing at the scuffed dirt. He heard the car pull up at the end of the path, knew it was time to go home. 

Mickey glanced back at the empty campsite, then up at the sky. Whatever his wish had been, that first afternoon of the trip, it had been more than answered.

_Thank you._

* * *

(Sunday Midday - Mickey)

##  [ Daughter- Youth ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QT5eGHCJdE)

AJ had filled the front passenger seat with his camera gear, claiming it ‘needed the airbag more than you two idiots,’ so Ian, Mickey, and Tina all shared the backseat for the ride home. It was a calm ride, all bright sunshine and winding roads, AJ’s music choices playing enough to fill the car cabin without being oppressive. 

Ian’s eyes kept drooping, the dark circles underneath attesting to his trouble sleeping the first part of the night before. Mickey reached out, pressing the red hair to his shoulder, stretching out and making himself a pillow for Gallagher, who gratefully let his [ eyes ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ce/90/a0/ce90a0c4db6ac2747e0e170eddd11520.jpg) fall closed again. On the far side, Tina took up the remainder of the bench seat, curled in a circle. They didn’t say anything, not out loud, but there was a joyful shouting going in, in their small glances, in the soft touches, in every breath, in and out. 

AJ kept glancing back in the rear-view mirror, like he could sense the silent affirmations. Mickey looked away, watching the green world go by, feeling Ian sink deeper into sleep, feeling the rumble of the road under them. 

“He sleeping?” AJ’s low-pitched voice broke Mickey’s musing.

Mickey looked down, confirming.

“Yeah, out for the count. We uh- the night wasn’t as restful as I expected.”

AJ smirked at that, “You wanna discuss that? Kinda broke some rules there.”

“You heard?” Mickey was dismayed.

Rolling his eyes, AJ kept his voice calm. “I picked a tent site so I wouldn’t hear _anyone_. But I have eyes, I can see you two were up to something.”

“We didn’t fuck, if that’s what you mean,” Mickey bit out sullenly, his good mood threatening to dissipate. 

_He knew he deserved to be yelled at, but couldn’t it wait? Couldn't he just have this, enjoy this?_

“Plenty of things can be done without fucking. S’not my big concern though. He doesn’t have a year yet, does he?”

“Tomorrow. What’s 24 hours even matter?”

“You mean what does keeping a commitment for 364 days matter, as opposed to 365? I admit that literally there isn’t much difference. But figuratively…” AJ trailed off, letting Mickey think that over.

He saw it, _of course_ he did. He was the asshole who made it a year, and then tempted Gallagher, practically assaulting him, preventing him from gaining the same achievement. 

But given the chance, he didn’t think he’d be able to choose differently.

“Couldn’t say no, man. What could I do? He’s under my [ skin ](https://i1.wp.com/www.nerdsandbeyond.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Mickey-Milkovich-Pride-article-4.gif?resize=500%2C282). Needed me.”

AJ sighed deeply. “If all you want is to be needed, you’ve got it. Is that all this is? Being needed, and what- sucking each other off, late at night?”

“ _All_ this-” Mickey sputtered, but kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Ian. “All this is? This is everything, AJ- This is like, life and death, live or die, love across the vast expanse of space and time shit. So [ fuck you ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/8574c238655e5835e4a9a1af6bfc1146/tenor.gif?itemid=12519394). I sucked his dick, and I fucking love him.”

“Pair of love-drunk idiots, the two of you.” AJ wasn’t the least perturbed by Mickey’s mini-rant. “I’m guessing once he celebrates you’re going to tell him that?”

“Tell ‘im what now?” 

“ ‘I sucked his dick, and I fucking love him.’ “ AJ did a fairly good impression of Mickey’s voice. “Sounds like a thing the other person involved should know.”

“Oh. Shit. I- I guess so?”

“Let me guess- you hadn’t thought past climbing him like a squirrel climbs a tree, am I right?”

“No.”

 _Yes_. 

Sullenly, “Maybe.”

“Give it some thought. Take the day. Lots of people realize what they wanted in early recovery isn’t sustainable in the long term, or their needs change.”

“You sayin you think I should- what, hit it and quit it? No fuckin way, man.”

“No, Mickey, I’m not. I’m saying you need to acknowledge, for yourself and to yourself, what comes next. What you want, what you need. What he wants and needs.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a mini 4th step.”

“Oh, was my hint not blatant enough? My suggestion is go home, write it all out, Do a pro/con list. Because if you just fall into this thing, I don’t think that honors the ‘love across the vast expanse of space and time shit’. I think you know I want you kids to be happy, and I hope that means together. But you gotta be sure, and not just going off assumptions.”

Mickey [ rested ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQpsr-zGIkdsm_yRcosrfoC9nps11gRqx96Fw&usqp=CAU) his head on the seat back behind him, giving Gallagher an appraising look before closing his own eyes as well. AJ took the cue, and didn’t push further.

* * *

###  _**(Monday Night - Mickey)** _

[ Black Dog - Arlo Parks ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOu0Ht0-D4M)

Mickey stood outside of Ian’s homegroup on Monday night. It had been drizzling on and off all day, so the celebration had been moved indoors, and Mickey stood, [ smoking ](https://assets.change.org/photos/2/jf/tb/ZpjFtbtJHDFyacN-400x400-noPad.jpg?1518389330) anxiously in the parking lot. His celebration at the beginning of the month hadn’t been a big production: his homegroup just didn’t make it a thing. But Ian’s homegroup really celebrated at every possible opportunity. 

Did he care that Ian was getting a bigger celebration? _Fuck, no._ Gallagher totally deserved and probably enjoyed the pomp and circumstance, while Mickey found it difficult to be the center of attention, even in positive situations. He struggled with something else tonight. It was common knowledge that the days, weeks, or even month before and after one’s celebration brought up mixed emotions, and Mickey was finally experiencing that for himself.

He couldn’t stop thinking back to the last few days of his using, when he’d been at his metaphorical bottom, though he hadn’t known it at the time. 

* * *

###  _**(April - 13 months ago - Mickey - Contains reference to suicide and explicit references to 3x06. Potentially triggering video is asterisked. Feel free to skip ahead.)** _

[ Everybody Gets High - Missio ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHukwv_VX9A)

[ Hellfire - Barns Courtney ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDPNjIbFGsI)

The nightmares had been a constant, and he’d only been able to sleep for a few hours at a go, usually forced into unconsciousness by opiates, alcohol, and benzos. Then, when he finally did fall asleep, he’d wake up in a panic, fucking shaking, hearing shit. 

He always heard the same things, in his nightmares and in his imagination. He’d jump up and [ listen ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0fff5a196d12b8e5f7fd8ad6eb3adee1/tumblr_nj6458KA561tuehrqo1_500.gifv) at his bedroom door to the sounds all [ jumbled together ](https://coub.com/view/iexn4) ***** like a box of mismatched puzzle pieces: 

A woman, moaning

 _‘That one_ ’

The front door creaking open unexpectedly

‘ _Gonna fuck the faggot outta you’_

The sound of fists connecting with flesh

‘ _What the fuck_ ’ 

Heavy hands swinging at him, at his face and his head

High heels clacking across the wooden floor

A pistol being cocked

‘ _Ride him till he likes it_ ’

Fabric being pulled off a body

‘ _Goddamn aids monkey_ ’

And his own pathetic, worthless begging, that was the _worst_ one, what made him cover his ears, despite it being totally useless to stop the sounds in his own head.

But the auditory hallucinations were only the beginning. He had visual memories too, flashes of moments. Most of it was a blur, but a few stood out.

Seeing his father’s fist like a sledgehammer coming down, over and over again.

The blood, trickling down Gallgher’s pale chest where Mickey had kissed.

Flipping the whore over, unable to look at the pain in Ian’s face any longer, fucking into her with all the rage he possessed, wanting to hurt her, hurt himself, hurt the world.

To stop the hallucinations and the memories, he would use more. Whatever was in the house, breaking into Iggy’s stash, rifling through Mandy’s vanity, even going through his father’s broken bedside table a few times, in hopes of finding one last, lost pill that could get him out of his pain for even a moment. 

On this night, he had a weird [ orange bottle ](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/500ml-bottle-of-liquid-oxycodone-an-opioid-pain-relief-medication-and-picture-id1133498960?s=612x612) , full of liquid roxycodone. He’d scammed it out of a doctor, claiming he had “terrible back pain.” His back did hurt, but that was more probably his kidneys complaining about the steady diet of illicit substances and lack of hydration. He kept taking swigs out of it, waiting for the noise in his head to quiet, recede, but it wasn’t _fucking_ working. 

He stumbled out of his room, and grabbed a beer from the fridge, downing it quickly, not even tasting whether it was skunked. He hadn’t shit in days, from the opiates and the not-eating, so everything in his stomach felt rank and tight. Coulda been a swollen liver in there too, his skin was pasty and his eyes bloodshot. 

He had already searched the rest of the house twice over, no one was home and there were no more hidden drugs. Compulsively, he walked through each empty bedroom again, opening drawers and cabinets, in case he’d missed something. He hadn’t, so he settled onto the shitty couch in the living room, with the hideous, moth-eaten, stained, knit afghan over the back. The orange bottle wouldn’t last much longer, and he knew in the morning he’d be dopesick, needing to go cop on the street; beg, borrow, or steal something, just so he could get straight enough to- to what? He didn’t go anywhere, or do anything. He never left the house unless it was to get more drugs, he didn’t shower or attend to any hygiene, he barely ate. He knew he was dying by inches, and he thought that was just fine. Couldn’t happen soon enough, was just too pussy to end it himself. 

For weeks, he’d been slowly trying to psych himself up to end it. His tolerance was too high for the narcotics to do much, unless he got his hands on some pure shit. But what he had in abundance were [ guns ](https://em.wattpad.com/5598571a4ea5ea245b8d138b8d38d48710596f6a/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f686c4b66656334394230757957413d3d2d3435333731343836312e313464393565396663336536393633343430323230373836353636352e676966) he knew how to use, goddamn loaded weapons, and knives, all over the house. Fuck, there was even a ninja throwing star stuck in the ceiling of the kitchen. A cut or two from that, in the right spots ( _left to right, psych for the night; up and down, buried underground_ ) and he could just… slip away from this life he never wanted, never asked for. There’d been one or two good things, and he’d ruined them, lost them. 

A different memory had surfaced then, of a [ different moment ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/DisgustingUnconsciousAnole-small.gif) on this couch, of being looked at like he existed, for the first time. Of how the kid, always just _the kid_ , never his name, wasn’t safe to say that name, he still thought of him as a kid, in his mind) had [ lit up ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/05a3d65abd8d47c73b54ecc68730ac31/tumblr_nril08i1zu1tqysgio1_500.gifv) when he’d seen Mickey.

Somewhere out there, the kid was living life. A life without Mickey in it. Probably a good ass life, with friends, school, a real job, Mickey imagined. Something helpin’ people. Like an- _he floundered for an example, before his mind supplied_ \- an ambulance driver. At night, he imagined the kid going home to an apartment that didn’t smell like feet, and there being food in the fridge, in little tupperwares, that he could heat up and eat any time he wanted. Mickey’s little fantasy for the kid included a man, some dark haired guy, waiting in the bedroom. The face was blurry ( _thank fuck_ ) but they kissed and-

He shook his head, refusing to go further down the rabbit hole. The roxy was finally starting to hit him, and he rolled onto his side, [holding](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6aed7dce1d0c22f020eaec196de186b5/tumblr_o6kgm0Lepm1s9nyo3o1_400.jpg) the musty pillow to his face as he nodded out. 

* * *

###  _**(Present - Monday Night - Mickey)** _

In the present, Mickey came back to himself. His [ cigarette ](https://img.particlenews.com/img/id/0Ssite_0NmyYXcd00?type=webp_1024x576) had burned down while his mind had been wandering. It was definitely time to go inside and put on a happy face. _Was this happiness_? He had so many of the things he’d always wanted, but the voice in his head, Terry’s voice, kept telling him he didn’t deserve it, that it would all disappear soon. 

As he headed down the stairs to the basement celebration space, he came upon Gallagher, pacing anxiously in the hallway, facing away from him.

“Everything ok?”

Ian’s whole body visibly relaxed when he heard Mickey’s voice, and he spun.

“Was worried you weren’t coming!”

Mickey [ glanced ](https://a.wattpad.com/cover/210245589-256-k819760.jpg) down at the floor, chain heavy around his neck. 

_Fuck Terry. Fuck the world. Fuck anyone who said this wasn’t what he’d waited a lifetime for._

Ian approached him, then stopped with a wall of air between them, seemingly uncertain of his reception. 

Mickey stepped to him, got into his personal space, and [ looked ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2d/a4/62/2da462a1b4e7bc06248b0aa73cbc80a8.jpg) Gallagher dead in the eye. 

“Wouldn’t fuckin miss it.”

As the last stragglers came down the stairs, they had to squeeze past Mickey and Ian, hugging in the stairwell, holding each other like their lives depended on it. In a way, they had. 

* * *

###  _**(Monday Night - Ian)** _

[ Peach Fuzz - Caamp ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Obw1eEznec)

Everyone was there for his celebration, it seemed. He’d started the night with his whole family piled into Fiona’s car, everyone on each other’s laps for the ride over. When they’d pulled in, Fiona had popped the trunk and a whole array of [rainbow balloons](https://partyfiestadecor.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/406-Bouquets-colorful-balloons.jpg) had exploded out. She had insisted on bringing them down to the church basement and tying them to his folding chair in the big circle. Michelle and Liz were already downstairs, and his sponsor presented him with a small bouquet of [lilies](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e0/04/75/e004755c4e7fffa8c136d6af1a5e4661.jpg), surrounding a single peacock feather. Liz handed him a brown paper gift bag, and hugged him so tightly he feared for his ribs. 

As the clock had ticked closer to the meeting’s start time, he’d hugged and greeted all his recovery friends, as well as some people. But the person he wanted to see was stubbornly missing from the room. He excused himself from a conversation with Del about taking an area level commitment to go check the hall for any sign of Mickey.

Finally, _finally_ , he had shown up, face a little pale, but the hug had melted away all Ian’s worries. He dragged Mickey by the hand into the main room, hoping to give him the seat next to Ian’s, but Michelle had claimed one side, and the meeting’s chairperson, a man he didn’t know well, Phil was seated on the other side, just beginning to look like he would start the meeting, shuffling papers. 

_Fuck_.

“Here.” He shoved the warm metal medallion into Mickey’s palm. “Will you give it to me, when it’s time?”  
Mickey’s eyes searched his face, looking for- _for what_?

“You sure, man?”

Ian smiled and brought his hands up, [ cupping ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/sN4LQ5375kI/hqdefault.jpg) Mickey’s face.

“I am _so_ fucking sure, Mick.” 

“Welcome to the Spiritual Direction Homegroup of NA. My name’s Phil and I’m an addict.” The meeting was starting, so Ian dropped his hands and made his way to his seat, watching Mickey find a spot in the back, even though there were plenty of seats near the Gallagher clan. He could see Mickey walking the medallion over his [ knuckles ](https://i.makeagif.com/media/11-02-2017/zxXYwO.gif), back and forth with deft motions.

After the serenity prayer and the readings, the chair cleared his throat. 

“This is an open meeting of NA, which means all are welcome. We do ask that you refrain from sharing if you are not an addict. Our format usually rotates, depending on the week, but tonight, we have a homegroup member celebrating. Although I don’t know Ian well, I’ve seen him here consistently, being of service. He has a sponsor, works steps, shares, and seems like a good guy. Congratulations, and I’ll turn the meeting over to Ian.”

Often at this point in a celebration, the celebrant would give a whole speech about how the past year had been for them. These speeches could drag on, and Ian really didn’t think he had anything significant to say. 

“Hey, I’m Ian and I’m an addict.”

“How many?” A voice shouted from the back of the room. Ian narrowed his eyes- _Mandy_ was standing back there, [ leaning ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/AffectionateFreeBug-small.gif) on the wall and looking smug. She hadn’t made it to Mickey’s celebration, because of work, but she was here now. Other voices picked up the chorus, until Ian had to make ‘calm down’ gestures with his hands.

“One year, I’m celebrating one year clean tonight.” 

The room erupted in loud applause.

Once it had died down, Ian opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He’d had an idea of what he was planning to say, but it had all disappeared. His mind was blank, and then he was drawn down into a memory.

* * *

###  _**(February - 15 months ago - Ian - Contains potentially triggering material: mental illness, drug use, human trafficking, sexual assault. Feel free to skip ahead.)** _

[ Blood//Water - grandson ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk-U8ruIQyA)

Ian thought he might _actually_ be in hell. 

He was in a house, or at least it had looked like a house when he walked in, however many days and nights ago. He’d had money, that first night, to pay for the crystal. Since then, they’d kept supplying him with the drugs, but there wasn’t even a discussion of money or payment. They were probably selling him, he knew. Without a clear timeline or recollection, there was no way to be sure, but his body felt raw, and there were bruises and bite marks he couldn’t explain away.

That had been bad.

This was worse. 

He could hear _something_ happening nearby, maybe in the next room over, or above him? Someone, a very young person by the sounds of it, was begging. The pleas only stopped when the shouting started, and the sound of furniture being smashed or thrown around. Everytime the chaos died down, the voice started back up, crying desperately and asking for help.

At first, Ian had beat his fists against the locked door, then on the wall. He’d yelled his voice rough with threats, promises of vengeance. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had changed. It had been days, and all day and night he could hear the young person, too young even to determine their gender by voice, sobbing helplessly and beseeching anyone who could hear for mercy that never came.

He was so weak. Someone else, a better, stronger person, could break down the door, tear apart the walls, to save the crying child. He wished he weren’t alone, but he didn’t want anyone to know this was where he’d ended up. That brought up thoughts of his family, how he hoped they were doing ok. Of another person who had let him talk and met his eyes. Those [ blue ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQEt-VaO5WZ2ZK3acEaZ8YgsSn-cj02jrTYXA&usqp=CAU) eyes, he missed them so much, couldn’t find the shade anywhere else, though he studied every person he came into contact with. 

The pitch and intensity of the cries were rising, edging into screams. Ian couldn’t sleep through it. Or maybe that was the crystal. He retreated to the [ bare mattress ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3d723edc582bf6c10ca29a1fb08ddcd8/tumblr_nz4g28xxrN1qa4iv8o2_540.png) , and huddled against the wall, hands over his ears. He was hearing an assault. He was being forced to listen to the rape of a young person, and there was nothing he could do. _Was he an accomplice?_ He didn’t know.

The men who came in and out of his room acted like they didn’t hear anything, cocked their heads at him when he asked about it, when he asked if they could help the person, or let him go help them instead. He was never allowed, only distracted, used, and discarded. Over and over again.

This was his life now. He’d be in this room until he died, he was certain. His heart would give out, or he’d die of dehydration because they forgot to bring him water for too long, or he’d overdose by accident, or a client would get too mad and go too far, one more time. 

Hiding in the closet, knees to chest, hands clapped over his ears, he joined the screaming voice with his own, until he couldn’t hear the other person anymore. 

There was no other voice, only his. There had never been another voice. The voice kept screaming, only now it was inside his head, begging for help. 

* * *

###  _**(Present - Monday Night - Ian)** _

[ Proof - I am Kloot ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=457mjzLidgo) ( **Seriously** , go watch this video)

Ian was back, he knew. This was real, not what his mind had supplied. He looked out over the crowd, at Fiona, Lip, Carl, Debbie, at Mandy in the back, Liz, Austin, Del, Kate, Dan, AJ, Teddy, and then his gaze rested on Mickey, who was [ smiling broadly ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/l2e1kP4RRyo/maxresdefault.jpg) right at him, _just_ at him. Ian could feel all the love in the room and it helped him get his words out.

“So, I’m not really gonna talk too much. I got here because I didn’t listen so good, and now I’m trying to fix that. I asked my sponsor to speak on the primary spiritual principle tonight, so Michelle’s gonna share on love.” He turned and gave her a warm hug, relieved not to be in the spotlight for a moment.

“Well, hi, folks! I’m Michelle and I’m an addict. Ian is one of my sponsees, and he has been such a hoot to get to know and grow with.”

She went on and shared for about 15 minutes, and though Ian listened intently, he heard very little. The weight and reality of his accomplishment was hitting him, and all he could do was sit, [ drifting ](https://em.wattpad.com/bad0428d9f51f567c80593dcc5645c6022d26a8e/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4f44426a4b6268356e54705f59513d3d2d3435333831343131362e313464393733616535333532343030383837393034323733383230362e676966?s=fit&w=720&h=720) in and out of the conversation. The balloons over his shoulder occasionally came into his line of sight, contributing to the fundamental unreality of the situation. He knew he had dissociated, just a little, but he wasn’t sure why, or how to come back. 

He caught her saying something about spirituality, “Spirituality is the hard part- it’s easy when you get clean to go to the gym, get a few pounds back, but really honestly finding a level of spirituality isn’t from the gym.” Unsure how it connected to love, he smiled, making sure to look grateful. Finally, she wound down with praises for Ian, for his recovery, and another giant hug as the room filled with applause again.

It was his turn again. “Ok, thanks Michelle. I guess we’ll open the floor now? You can share on what you just heard, or anything else affecting your recovery.” He [ looked ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e0/87/72/e08772f423412b795c64107672057771.jpg) over the audience, waiting a beat. Four or five different hands shot up, waving urgently.

He pointed to an addict in the circle, and the sharing began. Somepeople made it a mini circle-jerk, expounding on how great Ian was, which was normal for a celebration. But others had real issues to share about, needing to get things off their chests, or talk about ideas Michelle’s sharing had raised for them. It was good, it was a meeting.

When there were 10 minutes left, Phil took over again. “So at this time of the night, we open the floor to anyone with a burning desire. A burning desire means you want to use, hurt yourself, or someone else, and you won’t make it through the night without sharing about it. This is your time.” He slowly studied the room, looking for even the slightest indication of a raised hand. Finding none, he proceeded. “And now for clean time. In NA, we define clean time as the complete abstinence from any mind or mood altering substance, including alcohol, because alcohol is a drug. Is anyone celebrating multiple years of recovery?”

“Black on gold, you did what you were told, gold on black, you kept coming back,” a few voices from the crowd chanted. No one raised a hand.

“Is anyone celebrating 18 months?”

“Duct-tape grey, stick and stay!” The audience chimed in.

“How about nine months?”

Laughs and hoots from the crowd. 

“Oh, excuse me!” Phil faux apologized. “Seems I missed something. Is anyone perchance celebrating - one year clean?”

“Glows in the dark so your sponsor can find you!”

Ian raised his hand, and again the crowd cheered. He looked out through the happy, shiny faces staring at him and caught Mickey’s eye, waving him up to the front of the circle. 

“Uh, I’m Mickey and I’m an addict.”

“Hi, Mickey!” 40 voices called out as one.

“Ian asked me to give him his [ medallion ](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn3.volusion.com%2Fnrftt.mdumn%2Fv%2Fvspfiles%2Fphotos%2FNAB-3.jpg%3Fv-cache%3D1569393917&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.recoveryshop.com%2FNA-Polished-Bronze-Medallions-p%2Fnab.htm&tbnid=Neh_EESbI74s3M&vet=12ahUKEwjT0_yWuOnqAhXQAd8KHVUfA1AQMygVegUIARDJAg..i&docid=DBDpC8kayhTnFM&w=600&h=600&q=na%20one%20year%20medallion%20image&ved=2ahUKEwjT0_yWuOnqAhXQAd8KHVUfA1AQMygVegUIARDJAg).” He held up the item, and paused. Ian watched intently, wondering what Mickey would say about him.

“So, I’ve known Ian for a long time. Feels like forever, but at least since Little League, on and off. I always thought he had it good, you know? Family that didn’t hate each other, he’s always been smart, and people like him. Social acceptability shit. He was my first friend, in my life, and the last person I wanted to see in recovery.”

The crowd made uncomfortable noises.

“No, I mean like, I didn’t want him to need this, or to see me here. But finding him here, it’s been the best thing. I got my friend back.”

“And more!” That was Mandy, heckling.

Mickey shot her the finger, though he was on the verge of a smile.

“And yeah, ok, maybe a little more too. But he’s doing the work. He works harder than any motherfucker I know.”

He coughed, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words, and held up the medallion.

“On one side, it says ‘Self, God, Society, Service, Freedom, Goodwill, with the roman numeral one inside. On the other, ‘That no addict seeking recovery need ever die. My gratitude speaks when I care and when I share with others the NA way.’ I’m really glad this fucker didn’t die, and that he shares his recovery with me.” Mickey broke then, [ waving Ian closer into a kiss ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ace5b4739941811111e1f803696c7e66/tumblr_ou1s0usVUk1uckoizo1_400.gifv), accompanied by hoots of support from the addicts and friends, none louder than from Mandy and the Gallaghers. Liam was even standing on a chair, clapping. 

Phil coughed once to get the meeting back on track, and when everyone ignored him, he smacked his basic text against the side of his chair, making a loud clang that finally got the crowd’s attention. He completed the clean time reading, and then closed the meeting. After the Serenity Prayer, he made sure to remind everyone that there was a celebration cake in the kitchen.

Mickey had never quite made it back to his seat, only moved to stand nearby Ian, hand resting on his shoulder, so Ian didn’t need to look for him after the meeting closed. There ended up being a line of people waiting to hug and congratulate him, and eventually Mickey headed off to the kitchen ostensibly to get himself a piece of cake. Ian was _pretty_ sure he’d come back with an extra. 

Michelle was the last one in the line, and she wrapped her arms around Ian and just held him for a long moment, sighing deeply. When their embrace ended, she faced him. “I am so proud of you, Ian. How does it feel?”

“Feels pretty weird.”

She nodded. “I can see how that might be. Any particular weirdness?”

“Just- celebrating for getting a year clean? Isn’t that like getting a trophy for something you’re supposed to do anyway?”

“Don’t diminish the work you had to do to get here. The medallion is for you, so are the gifts. But the celebration isn’t.”

“No?” Ian was puzzled.

“Nope. It’s for the newcomer, to show them that it’s still possible, that people get clean and stay clean every single day.” She smiled kindly at him. “Celebrating is a kind of service work.”

“That kinda makes sense, I guess.” 

He eyed his sponsor a bit warily. “There’s something else.”

With a laugh, she put an arm around his shoulders (as best she could, he had about 5 inches on her.) “Let me guess, it’s about Mickey?”

He nodded.

“The year’s up. You can pursue your relationship now in good conscience. Or whatever else there is left to pursue after the last night in his tent.”

“You heard us?!” The horror was dawning in his mind as he imagined Michelle, overhearing the things he’d said, the noises Mickey had made...

“No, I heard _about_ you. No details necessary.”

“I didn’t mean to go there- I don’t even know how I ended up in his tent!” Ian’s voice was tight with anxiety, but Michelle didn’t seem the least perturbed. 

“Honey, you two are like magnets. It’s like that story of the pig.”

“The pig? This seems unflattering.”

“Just an old joke. ‘Never attempt to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.’ Trying to keep you two apart is a waste of time, and annoys everyone.”

“Annoying _and_ compared to pigs?” Ian kept his tone teasing.

Michelle elbowed him very gently. “Shush, you. I’m trying to give you my blessing, not that you need it.”

“Don’t we? I’ll be honest, I’m scared to not have that safety net now. Like, once it’s just the two of us, we’ll find out it was just a phase, something we thought was cool a long time ago but the reality isn’t what we want.”

“Or you met the love of your life young and under terrible circumstances. You’ve always done the best you could. More to the point, both of you are stubborn enough to keep moving forward and growing together.

“Love of your life, ey?” Mickey appeared, holding two small paper plates with squares of cake, a fork standing in the center of each. 

Ian flushed. “Something like that, yeah.”

Michelle pulled her arm back. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow Ian. Mickey, well said- you have a real gift for elocution. Night, boys!” She headed out, and the rest of the Gallagher party descended, all sugared-up from cake and happy to see Ian doing well. Mandy seemed to have left already rather than face an awkward encounter with Lip. 

“The fuck is elocution?”

“Means speaking effectively, easily understood” Lip told him, always the know-it-all. 

Mickey picked a huge piece of cake on his fork and chewed, mouth wide open and masticating in Lip’s direction. “Eashly undershtood, huh?”

“Fuck off, that’s gross, typical Milkovich.” The tension started to escalate, and Ian knew he needed to intercede between his brother and his boyfriend.

“Hey, guys, it’s cool. I’ll meet you at home, ok?”

Fiona stood in front of them, assessing, her hands on her hips. She pointed her cake-laden fork at Mickey. “He has therapy early tomorrow, so none of this ‘oh it was late so he just stayed over’ bullshit. Just cause he has a year, and you two are a _thing_ , doesn’t mean he can stop all the other shit.”

Mickey was obviously holding back a retort, so Ian jumped in. “Got it, message received, walk home with Mickey, then sleep at our house tonight, loud and clear.”

After helping clean up and break down the meeting room with a few other addicts, Mickey and Ian were left standing in the darkened room, last to leave. The scents of cake, coffee, sweat, and metal all mixed together. Only the fire exit sign illuminated the two men. Mickey had been fairly quiet during the cleaning process.

“Hey, Mick. You good?” Ian turned to him.

“I am truly and sincerely good right now,” the dark haired man said softly.

“Lotta words there. Fancy ones.” Ian stepped in, closing the distance between them.

“Eh, someone told me that’s the way to a man’s heart. Fancy words and shit. Since I didn’t have a gift.”

“I didn’t need a _present_ from you, Mickey. Need somethin else though.”

Before Mickey could get off a smart remark, Ian had pressed close to his body, [ wrapped ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3569d3e412066bdea34dd4ccf3bda3e1/934c8b250ad77e70-79/s640x960/fe90ae4d5fbf56aecbae5ca4922040b952241cf7.gif) his hands around Mickey’s skull and captured his lips in a kiss. He must have taken Mickey off-guard, because it took a moment until Mickey’s hands came up to reciprocate the movement.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mini 4th step. Like taking an inventory of a situation even if you aren't on the 4th step. There's a whole format in the 10th step for a daily inventory, but for situations that are bigger than daily, and can't wait until you come back to a 4th step, there's the mini inventory. It's basically a lot of writing and journaling and looking at the situation from every angle.  
> 2\. Every homegroup and area of NA has its own customs and habits for celebrations. Some, like Mickey's, don't make it a big deal, while others, like Ian's, go all out. These celebrations are for one or more years clean, not the small iterations of cleantime.  
> 3\. Oh man, 3x06. I had this brilliant idea to give both men flashbacks, and of course that's Mickey's. I made myself rewatch the scene once, but it won't hurt my feelings if you skip this section.  
> 4\. To be clear, the things Mickey hears are in his head, but a product of drug use, not mental illness.  
> 5\. I just made up the rhyme "left to right, psych for the night; up and down, buried underground" but the premise is based on something I heard in a mental health unit. If you struggle with suicidal thoughts or ideation, please contact National Suicide Prevention Lifeline  
> Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish.  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> 6\. Area level commitments are like NA infrastructural service positions. I can go deeply in depth on the topic, but it adds nothing to the story.  
> 7\. Mickey's move with the medallion is pulled from my head-canon that Mickey would be a Gunslinger in Stephen King's Dark Tower 'verse. And The Gunslinger used to do that with bullets, until he lost some fingers.  
> 8\. Ian's flashback is based on a friend's lived experience with mental illness and substance use. It is meant to be deliberately unclear as to whether what Ian hears is real or in his head. Again, if you skipped it, no worries. But that shit is real and happens to people.  
> 9\. Personal pet peeve: when a celebration meeting turns into a giant ego fest for the celebrant.  
> 10\. I think clean time, burning desire, and medallions are explained in text? If not shoot me a comment.  
> 11\. CAKE!  
> 12\. ‘Never attempt to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.’ - R A Heinlein.  
> 13\. I'll admit to borrowing part of a sentence from [Rebuilding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919341?view_full_work=true) . I tried to make it my own and to fit the scene it falls in.


	30. Coda: Living Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....they have sex. They have a lot of very good sex and they are in love and they are super happy. The end.  
> JK, Mickey has a secret that could change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I never thought we'd get here.  
> \---  
> [Living Clean](http://capeatlanticna.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Living-Clean.pdf) : The Journey Continues  
> "Sex is different when we’re clean. When we are neither numbed out nor artificially stimulated, we can be present to our own experience and to our partner in a very different way. Sometimes this can be frightening; sometimes it can be addictively exciting. Finding pleasure in our sexuality without thinking of it as a means of exchange or power can be a great freedom; for some of us, this takes longer than it does for others. We can enjoy ourselves and each other fully, in the moment, and learn what it really is to connect. We can be intimate. We can open up and be real. We don’t have to use each other as a drug; when we treat each other as human beings, we find our own dignity.”  
> \---  
> Need recovery help? Visit Na.org!  
> \---  
> This chapter didn't get any eyes but mine, so there may be minor changes that happen post-publishing.  
> \---

  1. The Secret (Thursday - Ian)




[ Hope There’s Someone - Anthony and the Johnsons ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyMGEq82uL4)

It had been three days since Ian’s celebration. He and Mickey still hadn’t had the opportunity to spend time alone (aka  _ fuck _ ) through a tragi-comic series of unmissable appointments, family drama, and maybe just a little hesitancy on their parts to see how the next phase of their relationship would progress.

It was Thursday afternoon, and Ian was meeting Mickey for lunch. Nothing fancy, but Mickey had texted and asked to meet him at Patsy’s Diner. When he walked in, Mickey had already secured a booth, and had a soda in front of him. Ian slid into the booth across from the shorter man, picking up the menu to study it as camouflage for his anxiety.

After settling on the same thing he always ordered at a diner, a cheeseburger deluxe, he laid the menu aside, looking closely at Mickey for the first time since he’d arrived. The other man had a secretive look in his eyes, something about the cant of his eyebrows and the way his mouth kept twitching, like he wanted to frown, but was trying not to. The waitress came and took their orders perfunctorily.

“What’s the occasion, Mickey?”

“Can’t I ask my boyfriend out to lunch?” Mickey laid one hand on his own chest, mimicking mock offense.

“I mean, you  _ can _ , but given everything that’s been going on, I would think if we both had free time there are better ways to spend it.” Seeing Mickey looking puzzled, he quickly added, “Together.  _ Naked _ ?”

Mickey got it. 

“Yeah, well I got a plan for that. But this is- well, it  _ might  _ be important.”

“Ok, you wanna tell me what’s the important thing that we have to meet at a diner to talk about?”

Mickey smiled and leaned across the table, like he was going to kiss Ian, or whisper to him. When Ian leaned in to meet him, Mickey hissed, “Mind your fucking business.”

Ian just laughed and sat back. The waitress returned with their food, so they dove in, stealing bites off each other’s plate, talking about nothing, really. Just updates about Ed and Emily, AJ and Michelle, the Gallaghers, Tina and Mandy. After consuming the burgers, they ordered slices of pie and cups of coffee.

“So?” Ian let the question hang, knowing Mickey would tell him when he was ready.

[ Mickey ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdtFbLYWsAMjMcv?format=jpg&name=360x360) rubbed the side of his neck and got a thousand-yard stare in his eyes, gaze fixed somewhere over Ian’s shoulder.

Ian was legitimately starting to worry; he internally braced himself, thinking of all the worst-case scenarios he could imagine.

_ Cancer. _

_ Terry. _

_ Mickey’s decided he’s actually straight. _

_ Mickey’s decided he’s straight AND he’s got cancer. _

_ Mickey’s still gay but he doesn’t want to be with me. _

_ He relapsed and has cancer and - _

[He](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdlDLa0U4AEWnzG?format=jpg&name=240x240) stared at Mickey, just trying to hold out and wait for the blow to land and his ability to survive it. His anxiety got the best of him.

“For christ’s sakes, Mickey, just tell me if you’re dying, or leaving me, or whatever the fuck is it!”

That got Mickey’s attention, and he frowned,  [ shaking ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0d7d45dcc8a7a033bf5c53b39fedc17c/tumblr_ou2zopzk941vif34po1_250.gif) his head. “No, man, it’s none a’ that shit.” He scrubbed a hand down his face roughly, sighing. “Ok, I- fuck. You remember the Russian whore?”

Ian had an instant sense memory of lavender perfume that made him nauseous. Not trusting his voice, he nodded once.

“She was sleeping with like, 20 men around that time, right? Including my own fucking father almost every night. Got knocked up, turns out she had the kid. Mandy saw ‘em last week, while we were up north camping, she ran into the bitch at the mall, and she swears, Mandy fucking  _ swears _ , the kid looks exactly like I did as a kid. Not that we can fuckin’ know, cause there ain’t any pictures of me, but whatever. Point is, the bitch agreed to a DNA test, and I have an appointment there this afternoon. To submit a sample and find out.”

“Find out?” Ian echoed foolishly, mind blank and staticy.

“Yeah. If I’ve - if he’s my kid.” Now Mickey was  [ watching ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ec/91/ca/ec91cafb8d6daec8cf0c76e10e689630.gif) him tensely, looking for all the world like he was watching someone kick down a sandcastle he’d spent hours building.

The burger and pie sat like lead in Ian’s stomach. “Ok.” He tried to resign himself to Mickey walking away from this, from  _ him _ .

“ _ Ok _ ? The fuck’s that mean?”

“It means ok. It means go to the appointment. Go be with her, with them. I- I understand. A kid’s a big deal.”

Mickey  [ looked down ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ad3a6745af2c6d9fc5611961df765a08/ddb7d2ff9bc340af-1c/s250x400/b83bc488bdf2cf6732d99f580ff8ba62901e5a3f.gifv) at the table for a long moment, then made a crude  [ jerking off ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1287775201732767745) gesture. “Enough, ok? Enough of this thinking every time shit happens that I’m going somewhere.  I would never leave you. After everything we’ve been through, you kinda just have to  **know** that.”

Ian breathed, closing his eyes. “I’m stupid.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Mickey cracked.

Opening his eyes, Ian looked at him, saw the  [ smile ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0b50f787ee87f4d00026174de9991a35/tumblr_ohozq0b8La1tgefh6o1_500.gifv) on Mickey’s face, saw the affection there as he sipped his soda. Something massive was crashing down inside him, tearing down the small, ugly dreams of his past, the nightmares that he wasn’t good enough, and that he was destined to end up alone.

“A kid, huh?”

“Yeah. Boy. Short too, which Mandy thinks is hi-larious and why she’s convinced he’s mine. Plus he’s got the uh,” he waved his fingers vaguely at his own face, “the eyes, apparently.”

_ A small version of Mickey _ . 

The thought warmed Ian in a way he hadn’t expected. “Shit, Mickey, you’re a dad.”

Mickey widened his eyes, as if the thought, or the title, had not occurred to him yet. “ [ Not really though ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_md0mgrhDI21rcii18o1_500.gif) .”

“Yeah, really.” Ian was nodding his head, getting into the idea. 

“So what, we’ll have him over every weekend, be his gay dads? Don’t even know what being a dad means, let alone a gay one. Shit, Gallagher, what if it fucks the kid up, or I already did something, like, cause I wasn’t there?”

“Easy, Mick, easy.” The fact that Mickey had instantly imagined the kid with both of them as gay dads, sharing visitation- it was heady, white picket fence shit. “Just start by taking the test, ok? What time’s the appointment?”

Mickey looked down at his phone, “Bout 15 minutes.”

“You want me to come?”

“Nah, talked to AJ, and I- I think I should do this solo. Not cause I don’t want you to be involved,” he rushed to reassure Ian, “but just to show myself that I can. You know, show up, follow thru. Not skip out.” The unsaid ‘ _ like Terry _ ’ hung between them.

“ Those wishing to discover a new land must spend a long time at sea.” Ian quoted glibly.

“NA shit?”

“Yup. I like the idea that we stepped on a ship when we got clean, and we’re gonna end up somewhere new and good.”

Mickey dipped his chin in agreement, before reaching into his pocket to pull out a few bills. “You ok here if I go?”

“Of course. Text me!”

He thought Mickey was just going to turn and leave, but he was surprised when Mickey dipped in and kissed him, just a quick  [ brush of lips ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/58/e8/15/58e815846adfc3d6aa44566cb18ed6ec.gif) , but there was heat behind it, and a promise in his sparkling blue eyes as he spun on his heel and headed out the door, giving Ian a good view of his  [ ass ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ed9RD-oUEAARDgJ?format=jpg&name=360x360) . 

The waitress returned, and refilled Ian’s coffee, promising to bring him back change for the bill.

He sipped, and waited, playing on his phone, letting him stomach settle from the food and the anxiety. Then his phone pinged.

**Mick** **(12:14PM):** [[attachment](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcT53YhpkyXFOF98i57fjUtgeyjObJEdn8q9-w&usqp=CAU)] 

Mickey had taken a selfie at the DNA testing center and sent it to him. He was making a comically anxious face, mouth all squished to one side.

**Ian** **(12:15 PM):** 😆😆😆

 **Mick** **(12:16PM):** Thought I was gonna have to jerk off into a cup, but all they did was rub a qtip all over my mouth

 **Ian** **(12:16 PM):** Srsly? LOL jerkin off is 2 donate sperrrrrm u did that like 11 yrs ago 💦💦💦

 **Mick** **(12:18PM):** Well I know that NOW

 **Ian** **(12:19 PM):** how lng

 **Mick** **(12:20PM):** 9 inches 

**Ian** **(12:21 PM):** 4 rrsults!! Iknowu love it 🍆🍆🍆

 **Mick** **(12:22PM):** Week or so. I’ll get a call. Know anything we can do for a week to keep my mind occupied?

 **Ian** **(12:23 PM):** nt ur mind **🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑**

 **Mick** **(12:24PM):** Stay over tonight?

 **Ian** **(12:24 PM):** **YEEEEESSSSSSSSSS**

[ A Tree in Tennessee - The National Parks ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMM8bcUE_4M)

* * *

II. Real Sex, Baby (Thursday Night / Friday Morning - Mickey)

[ Weak - AJR ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txCCYBMKdB0)

The night had started off a little weirdly. After joining up at the meeting, Ian and Mickey had come back to Mickey’s place. Mandy was home, and the three of them ate pizza in the living room, playing video games, and generally fucking around like they were all in high school again. They fed Tina bites of crust and it felt like Mickey had gone back in time, like every time he looked at Gallagher he saw the kid he’d been, and when he looked down at himself, he expected to see rags and dirt. 

But it was adult Ian beside him, hand on his denim-clad knee, inching up his thigh, trying to distract him into giving Mandy an advantage in the game. Mickey didn’t even mind, reveling in the shooting thrill of adrenaline that Ian’s touch brought. 

Finally, around 11, Mandy pulled a huge yawn. 

“Gonna go smoke a jay outside. Takin’ your dog for a piss, too.” It was hugely considerate of her, not smoking in front of them, warning them not to come outside, giving them space to connect. Mickey showed her gratitude with his eyes, even as his words were blunt. “Thanks for sharing with the class, you gonna live-tweet the experience too?” Ian laughed around a  [ mouthful ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EeJf3QeXkAAvE6q?format=jpg&name=small) of pizza and Mandy scowled, giving him the finger as she slammed the front door behind Tina.

Mickey glanced at Ian sidelong, then flicked his eyes back to the TV. 

_ This was so fuckin awkward. How did they get from here to…? _

Ian had swallowed, wiping his face with a paper napkin. Mickey leaned forward, starting to pile up used dishes and plates to carry into the kitchen, as Ian stared, hand still on his leg, fingers stroking lightly.

“What?”

“Cute domestic bitch.” The smile blooming over Gallaghers face meant something, Mickey just wasn’t sure what. 

Mickey  [ shrugged ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1288871420299223040) with a little smile on his face. “Can’t help it if I don’t want to live in abject squalor for the rest of my fuckin life, ok?”

“That fancy GED vocab slays me, man.” Ian clasped his hands over his heart. “Keep talkin nerdy to me, Milkovich.”

Mickey ignored him, standing to balance the dishes and trash on the pizza box, and carrying them out of the room. He heard, rather than saw, Gallagher standing up and following him closely. As soon as he set the stack of trash on the counter, he felt Gallagher’s hands on his hips, spinning him as the taller man hopped onto the counter, pulling Mickey’s hips in close, until they were slotted together, Ian’s hands grabbing Mickey’s ass,  [ squeezing it ](https://twitter.com/x_nord_x/status/1285553682852057088) as he ran the very edge of his lips up the skin of Mickey’s neck, delicately intimate in a way that made Mickey shiver.  The redhead let out pleasurable hum as he sucked, pulling a low, trembling hiss out of Mickey’s mouth like a magician.

Before he lost himself in the sensations, he managed to rumble out “You still wanna do this thing, Red?”

“Fuck, yes, please.” Ian mouthed the words into Mickey’s neck, nearly whispering into his ear, sliding forward off the counter with a conscious body-roll that had him sliding against Mickey in a mind-numbing press, even through their clothes.

“Eager much?” He teased, trying to keep his focus. 

“You’re fucking right I’m eager. It’s been a year- no, wait, it’s been a goddamn  _ decade  _ since I was in this ass. Long overdue.”

Mickey felt a blush rising up his neck, into his cheeks, and he glanced away, grabbing Gallagher’s hand, pulling him towards the bedroom without a word.

\----

(Thursday Night / Friday Morning - Ian)

[ More Than You Know - Motherfolk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YPVdgCRTCQ)

Mickey half sat and half lay between Ian’s legs, towards the foot of his bed. Their kissing had escalated, and now he was ready to take the intensity to a new height. They were both down to their boxers and wife-beater tanks, their shorts, pants, shoes, and socks lay on the floor beside the bed, the door firmly locked shut.

"Fuckin a, man," Mickey lifted the bottom of Ian's tee and looked up at him. He nodded. Mickey kissed his belly, and Ian just let him enjoy himself for a few moments. Mickey's kisses were gentle and sweet as he licked and sucked and generally made like Ian’s flesh was an indulgent dessert. Ian finally took a chance and pushed gently on Mickey's shoulder, directing him down Ian's body.

Mickey paused for a moment, his eyes still closed, then traveled down to nose around Ian's covered erection. "You okay with this?" Ian asked, his voice throaty. "Mick, you have to tell me if you aren't."

Mickey nipped at the strained fabric of Ian's briefs, pulling on it with his teeth.

Ian grabbed his short, dark hair and tugged. "Mickey, c’mere, come up here a sec."

Mickey looked at him, raising an eyebrow, asking,  “I’m rubbing your dick with my face and you’re feeling lonely? Really?” But he obliged, bringing his torso up and within range for Ian to meet his mouth, trying to show the other man the depth of his affection and attraction with only a  [ kiss ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1288783195136299014) , hand pressed to the back of Mickey’s head, holding him in place until Ian got his fill. Mickey went along, then turned the tide, taking over the kiss, biting and nipping and controlling Ian’s moves, finally pulling back and glancing down with an arched eyebrow of question.

"Oh, fuck." Ian groaned out. "Yeah, suck me. Mickey, if that's what you want, I wanna see it. Do it." Ian pushed Mickey's head down but let go of his hair, hands gasping at the bed spread instead.

Mickey scrambled to pull Ian's boxers off, his breath coming in thick pants. He almost looked angry, except for the gentle hands and the shining blue eyes, and with his mussed hair he already looked completely destroyed. "I want to, I want to."

"You're so fuckin beautiful, you're so perfect, yeah, I want to see that mouth around my cock." Ian pulled a pillow under his head and shoulders so he could watch the show Mickey was sure to put on for him.

Mickey sighed, his breath hot and wet over the taut skin of Ian's cock, voice shy. "I like that shit."

Ian huffed out a laugh, "Knew you were into dirty talk."

Mickey's tongue poked out of his mouth as he ran the tip over the edge of the head, making Ian contort as pleasure and anticipation lit up his spine. "That too."

Ian pulled himself together. "Huh?"

Mickey shook his head just a little but before Ian could press for answers, he took Ian's dick into his mouth and all coherent discussion was out the window. It had been a while since anyone had given Ian's dick this level of detailed attention, and Mickey was, for lack of a better word, worshipping it. He had one callused hand wrapped firmly around the thick base as he worked the head and upper shaft, swallowing and sucking hard before breaking off to lick long, hot stripes up and down, not forgetting to attend to Ian’s balls and thighs. 

“So good, Mick, love this so much-”

Mickey's body had shifted to settle down onto the mattress as if he planned to be there for a while, and as much as Ian was anticipating an amazing orgasm he was also willing to let Mickey follow his whim. Mickey's mouth was as dedicated as he was, hot with teasing and promises. Though he couldn’t cram all of Ian into his throat, he was giving an admirable effort.

Ian had to work to shut off his mind, still buzzing with other memories, other people’s mouths and bodies and bedrooms. Even thinking all of that, while Mickey worked on his cock with lavish attention, Ian managed to push everything aside: he left all of that locked in a crate in the furthest basement corner of his brain and focused on holding Mickey's solid shoulders, watching Mickey's back flex and contract as he bobbed up and down, the way his hips rolled to get some friction on his own cock.

Mickey sucked Ian's cock fully into his mouth and Ian panted and gasped out a litany of curse words and encouragements, praising Mickey and petting at him. Mickey groaned with Ian's cock buried deep in his mouth and throat. Pure affection was woven into Ian's lust and he was content to have Mickey pleasuring him.

The memory of another blowjob suddenly swam to the front of his mind, and Ian gasped, clearly  _ not  _ in pleasure, and recoiled, sliding up the bed away from Mickey, eyes unseeing. 

“Hey, Gallagher, what the fuck?” Mickey sounded confused, annoyed, but all Ian could see was another, far dingier and smaller room, and a grinning, macabre death’s head between his legs. The face, which was just skin stretched over bone, opened its mouth, showing rotten decayed teeth, and Ian was convinced he could smell the putrefaction. He coughed, gagging, and stood up, blindly hurrying into the bathroom. Mickey knelt on the floor of his own bedroom, more than a little confused.

He fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet, hearing the bed creak in the room behind him, feeling like a failure once again.

\----

(Thursday Night / Friday Morning - Mickey)

[ Gimme Love - Joji ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPan651rVMs)

[ Mickey sat ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcSNY4CgThBsOlBlFIcwcW8KdbwBIOx0AIwV-w&usqp=CAU) on his bed, back against the wall. He had a pretty good idea what had happened. Flashbacks were a bitch. He wasn’t hurt, though his cock ached a little, knowing it had little to do with him. The tap in the bathroom turned on, and he could hear Gallagher rinsing his mouth out. 

The tall man walked back into the room, eyes downcast. He sat on the edge of the bed, not facing Mickey. 

“Hey, man, you ok?”

“Not really.” The reply was quiet, too quiet. It made a spot deep under Mickey’s breastbone ache. He put a hand out, grabbing Gallagher’s shoulder.

“S’ok, Gallagher. Don’t have to do anything-” He was interrupted.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I want to do  _ things _ ! I want to do  _ everything  _ with you, right fucking  _ now  _ Mickey! My brain is just- it’s just a piece of garbage.” Ian smacked one palm against the side of his head, hard, and Mickey snatched it down before he had the chance to repeat the action. 

“Ok, we’ll do things, we’ll do  _ everything _ . I happen to like your brain, most days, when it’s not cockblocking you.” That won him a small smile. “Maybe we just gotta take the focus off you for a minute, you know?”

Ian met his eyes, looking to read the message there, and  [ Mickey ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f5/18/08/f51808f95fc2d1b954170373f2bcf35c.gif) bit his lip, raising his eyebrows. Mickey pulled Ian on top of him and poured out all of his emotions as he kissed Ian furiously. He didn’t use words but his lips told Ian things that were for Ian's heart only. 

Soon, Ian pulled away and sat up, fully present again and ready to commence with the process of ‘taking the focus off of him’ and putting it onto Mickey. He slid Mickey’s boxers off, and let the red-haired man place him across the bed, waiting to see what Gallagher had planned for them.

“Gonna fucking take you apart, Milkovich. Until your body knows you’re mine.  I’m  _ doing  _ this. My way. So I’ll ask you just this once, you trust me?"

It shouldn’t have hit Mickey as hard as it did but Ian's words were like a bullet to the chest. Mickey closed his eyes, feeling Ian's fingers ghost over his dry hole but not quite touching. He could feel with his whole body how rigidly Ian was holding himself, above and away. He knew Ian needed to hear it, that consent was important from both of them.

"Yeah," he whispered, and saw the man before him relax. "Trust you."

Ian lowered his head, setting his broad shoulders. Mickey wanted nothing more than to grab onto those shoulders and leave bruises that would last for weeks, mark him up like a tattoo on that fair skin. But he didn’t, kept his hands firmly by his sides. Ian stopped to look at him, met his eyes, and Mickey knew what he wanted, shifting up, taking Ian's shoulder with either hand and bearing down when he felt something slippery and hot on his hole.

"Jesus, fuck," he rasped out, unable to hold himself steady as Ian tenderly licked him open. Ian's large hands pried apart the globes of his ass and swiped that talented tongue flatly over his skin. His cock rapidly rose from a half chub to full hardness, damp tip brushing against his stomach.

Ian lifted his head, and for a moment Mickey was afraid that he had fucked up somehow. He felt the bumps rising on his skin as the wetness of Ian's saliva dripped off of him. "I’m good," he swore, “I’m fucking great, you can just-”

His words were cut off when Ian actually growled possessively, diving back in, more firmly and confident. 

Mickey tried his best to keep his hips from twitching up. The running commentary of expletives flowed from his lips like a downpour. Gallagher’s tongue prodded and lapped at him until he was pliant and entirely open, until his hole was puffy and a deep flushed red.

Ian thrust his tongue and it felt like his tongue was the length of a popsicle stick, all hot, slippery muscle spearing right through him. Mickey  _ wanted _ , he wanted so badly to wrap his legs over Ian's shoulders and keep him there. But Ian made another of those deep growling noises, making Mickey shiver, muttering another round of incoherent curses, slapping the bed with his palms, because god, Ian had a fucking  _ gift _ , he must’ve been keeping secrets in that tent, holding back.

_ Oh god, it was so good _ . He could die right now and be grateful for the life he lived.

He actually yelped when he heard Ian spit, loud and wet, into the palm of his large hand, making a filthy squelching sound as Ian rubbed his fingers together to spread the spittle across Mickey’s hole. His cock drooled out another little pulse of precum, and he couldn’t contain himself, lifting his hands off Ian's shoulders and stroking at the back of his boyfriend’s head. The man nearly purred and he could feel the vibrations radiate into his ass. 

"Yes," Mickey managed, struggling to keep the sob from escaping his throat. He needed,  _ needed _ , he didn't even know what exactly he was begging for until he felt it. The press and intrusion of Ian's saliva coated finger. A slow pressure that was sweet, a single digit bringing him no pain and little relief, only a longing for more. It was a shallow drumbeat of nerve endings pulsating.

"Still so fucking tight," He heard Ian grit from clenched teeth. “Cause you’re mine. This ass is  _ mine _ .” He slid another spit-slick finger in beside the first, just rubbing against Mickey’s flesh, not even scissoring him or stretching him beyond the rim. 

Mickey wasn’t known as a patient man, anything but. But for Ian, he was willing to do anything. Two fingers all night, if that’s what he wanted, though Mickey would probably fucking break down and cry if that happened. 

“No one else’s ever been in this ass, right?” Ian stared up at him possessively, even though he damn well knew the answer. Mickey clenched his ass because he wants to keep those fingers inside him. 

"Never, just you. Never had anyone's fingers, fuck, anyone’s tongue, anything!" Ian let out a chuckle of contentment, slipping a third digit into Mickey with a little twist that had Mickey wanting to howl. A crying groan escaped his lips, 

loud enough that he was sure some sound made its way to Mandy’s room or the street outside. 

"Don’t stop, tell me what you need, Mick. I need to hear you."

"More, bitch, I need more, or, fuckin, I dunno,  _ move _ ." He looked down to stare where Ian was touching him. He could see where Ian's knuckles disappeared sliding slowly into his body. Despite the harsh words, the sight affected him. Knowing that this part of him has never been touched by anyone else, a place inside him deeply hidden from the abuse he endured, from the pain he handed out, from the ways he betrayed himself, reserved to be touched only with kindness, with affection, by someone like Ian, it made him feel weak. There weren’t tears forming in the corners of his eyes. There were  _ not _ . 

“Relax, Mick, relax. I’ve got you. I’m not in a rush and we’re doing this my way. You get more when I think you’re ready.” It was Mickey’s turn to growl, and not kindly, but he consciously willed his body to relax, willing to play along. 

He fidgeted just a little, not because he was hurt or anything but because it was so damn slow and he needed more. He  _ needed  _ it. He hated waiting. 

"Mickey, I'm adding another finger, ok?" He made a lazy nod.  _ Four, ok, sure.  _ Nevermind that it was practically a whole fist slipping in and out of his ass.

There was another finger added and he could really feel that pleasure/pain of the burn. It was like when you had a bruise, and you’d press on it over and over, he rode that feeling, as Ian’s fingers spread inside him like a starfish. He was panting lightly now, being opened up, accepting more and more of Ian into his body. He wanted to come. He needed to come, his dick a hard, weeping line against his stomach, covered in puddles of precum. Just a touch, even, a brush against his prostate and he thought he’d blow his load right there, this slow shit be damned.

"Ian, oh god, right there, please, shit, fuck, Ian--Ian, please Ian, , I---" He nearly spilled when Ian partially pulled out his fingers and pushed back in with a small twist, his finger pads pressing against Mickey’s prostate. The only thing stopping Mickey from cumming was the freckled hand constricted around the base of his cock. 

"Got it," Ian murmured and Mickey would swear that he could hear the smile in those words. Ian swiped at it again, either to tease or to make sure it wasn't an accident, and Mickey hissed behind his teeth because, fuck, now he wanted more than fingers up his ass. 

“Fuck, Gallagher, please,” Mickey heard himself whine, as Ian began to massage the small lump of nerves, still gripping Mickey’s cock with his free hand, keeping him on the brink. The ghost of Ian's breath hovered over Mickey's cock and he produced another pumping spurt of precum. 

"What do you need, Mickey?" Ian gazed up at him, those  [ green eyes ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c5163faba60aa9c8e76aea7cc4b2b40b/321f17b8aae0347e-e8/s640x960/4f70b009147d27229dd05b0c3cd67e24fb52a2f3.gif) swirling with lust.

Mickey didn’t know if it was even fair to ask, if Gallagher’s head would let them, but he was so wrecked, so high on fuckin dopmaine, that he said the first thing that came to mind. “I really,  _ really  _ want your cock in me." 

“Fuck, ok, yeah,” Ian’s voice was so low, Mickey thought he was really talking to himself, until he let his fingers fade out of Mikcey’s body, his other hand slowly releasing Mickey’s cock. The cold air hit him and he steeled himself, wondering if Gallagher was making another run to the bathroom to puke. 

_ I’ll just give it like, two tugs, until I cum, and then I’ll go see I can- _

But Ian just reached over to the nightstand drawer and pulled out the lube Mickey kept there, slicking up his cock, returning his tongue to dip in and out of Mickey’s open and loose hole, keeping it ready for him.

_ This was torture. Fucking illegal and shit. _ Mickey squirmed, hoping to entice Gallagher to get on him already.

Finally, seeming to agree that Mickey Had. Suffered. Enough. Ian rested the head of his cock against Mickey’s hot flesh, not even pressing, just kissing the tip against the spit-shiny redness. As Mickey opened his mouth to protest, complain, his breath was pushed out of him as Ian slid and slid and slid and slid into him, bottoming out in one smooth motion, Mickey’s mouth wide open in a gasp. Gallagher pulled back, then stroked in again, feeling even deeper, then swirled his hips, making Mickey see stars. 

When he came back to himself, his cock was still hard and flexing with every thrust Ian gave him, a steady, percussive rhythm that brooked no denial. Not that Mickey ever would deny this man anything. The fat cock sliding into his ass felt incredible; the prep meant there was little to no burn on his rim, only pressure, delicious pressure. 

Gallagher kept the same pace, just like a clock pendulum, never building enough to let Mickey get off, but not slow enough for any of his energy to dissipate. He was on a high-wire, on the edge of cumming, held in place by Ian’s cock, by his hands on Mickey’s wrists, by his mouth, kissing and licking into Mickey’s own. All he could do was take it, all he wanted to do was take it, stay in this moment for the rest of his life. Mickey lost the plot a little, consumed by the sensations in his body, until he noticed Gallagher speeding up, dipping his head to suck a hickey over Mickey’s own heart. 

“Gonna get yer lips tattooed there,” Mickey slurred. “Maybe yer name.”

“K, Mick.” Gallagher gave him a particularly powerful thrust, adding that hip roll that had him pressing Mickey’s prostate and that was it- Mickey came like a goddamn fountain between them, nearly up to his own neck. 

Gallagher fucked him through it, hips stuttering a little as his eyes closed, then grunting as he too came, sending heat through Mickey’s gut like fireworks. 

“Mick - love -” 

Mickey couldn’t even tell what else he said; they’d both been on the very edge for far too long, years, it felt like, maybe it was. 

He floated, a little out of his body, aftershocks echoing, making him shiver,  [ eyes ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/071fbe398b7de08c069d1f7930181b75/tumblr_oyd87hrrez1qddo22o1_500.jpg) unfocused and dreamy. 

_ Gallagher was a- a fucking  _ [ _ angel of release _ ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRGnoMzWK6u-5f4XFbXMhWeAspyggMPEnwlrQ&usqp=CAU) _. Not a man. A fucking angel, come to earth to ruin him, Mickey Milkovich, for any other mortal man.  _

Mickey looked Gallagher up and down as he sat wiping sweat from his brow,  [ grinning ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Edy_qlKWoAA3ENv?format=jpg&name=medium) , “What’re you so happy about?”

He ducked his head, suddenly bashful. The penny dropped, and Mickey got it.

“Oh. Hey, congrats man! It’s like you lost your v-card all over again!” 

Ian punched his shoulder with no force behind it. “Fuck you, Mick.”

“Again? So soon? If you insist.” Mickey smiled  [ sweetly ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9e/6f/e8/9e6fe888e0117e1d265bd755ee509ab4.jpg) , putting his  [ fingers  ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EeEUP1iU4AAi3Y_?format=jpg&name=240x240) under Gallagher’s chin, tipping his face up for a kiss.

[ Salt Lake City- Motherfolk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRVWpDE0cvM)

* * *

III. An Exchanging of Love (Friday Morning - Ian)

[ Friends and Lovers: Incubus ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VfDFHkWquCM)

[ Red Eye - Motherfolk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdFltq_vcWI)

  
  


Lying together in bed, Ian’s mind was supposed to be a blissful blur, a white space of peace and tranquility. He’d finally fucked his boyfriend, over and over, until their bodies had given out and they’d fallen asleep, only to wake and repeat the process. But now that Ian wasn’t consumed by Mickey’s smell, the feeling of his skin, the taste of his mouth, his thoughts were swirling and heavy, like humid thunderclouds looming

Mickey hadn’t said it to him. Mickey hadn’t told Ian that he loved him, and it was driving Ian a little bit insane. He, Ian, felt like he had been screaming it and showing it, for months, maybe years.

_ I’m pretty sure I’ll be in love with you until I die. You’re it for me. The only one I’ve ever loved. _

_ Always loved you, always will.  _

_ Gonna love you the way you deserve. _

Ian realized with an uncomfortable start that he’d never said those three words outright to Mickey, or when they weren’t in a stressful situation, or being physical. So how could Mickey be expected to know he was longing and waiting to hear it back?

“I love you, Mickey Milkovich. More than anything.” The admission came spilling out his mouth with no conscious thought on his part: he felt like a ventriloquist's doll.

Mickey’s eyes popped open and his jaw went slack for a moment, but he recovered, “Where the fuck is this coming from, Gallagher?”

“I just need you to hear it. Even if you don’t- don’t love me back.”

“Are you kidding? Seriously?” Mickey stared at the ceiling for a moment, looking for all the world like a man searching for a higher power’s help to invoke. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes, lighting one, sucking in a deep breath, setting it back down in the cracked ashtray he kept by his bed. 

Ian’s heart leapt to his throat, fizzy hope filling him up like a hot air balloon. He  [ leaned on his elbows ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1275107062930866178) over Mickey, settling his body down, using his weight to get Mickey to stay put, stay present, taking any escape route away.

“So you…?”

“I do, of course I do.” Mickey’s eyes flicked down, but then up to meet his,  [ warm and steady ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdWGqHDWkAAIs6b?format=jpg&name=small) .

“But how do you know you love me? How do you really know?”

“Well, the date I went on was shit.”

“Obviously.” He leaned in to nudge at Mickey’s shoulder with his nose. 

“Obviously,” Mickey agreed with a grin. “The whole time I kept thinkin, if I’m gonna be annoyed, it might as well be at someone I actually  _ like _ .”

“Annoyance isn’t love, Mick.”

“Dude, I know that. I shared that tiny-ass tent with you.”

“Cause I sleep-walked in on you.”

“Stop invalidating our experiences, bitch! I’m trying to say something real here. Gimme a second.”

[ Ian ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ed3e32UXgAUg-do?format=jpg&name=360x360) closed his mouth dramatically, and slid to the side, body still  [ half draped ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQtH8WbQXssuDeBsuv2RfaKaLlZzeUSdiAntQ&usqp=CAU) over Mickey’s. 

“I ain’t experienced with love and shit, ok? We both know that. But you’re- you’re like,  _ unique _ , in my experience. And I don’t know why you- why you love me, cause we both know I have issues, but I think  maybe we should stick together. Life makes more sense with you. And that’s literally all I know about love. That enough for ya?”

“You forgot the great sex.”

Mickey  [ looked Ian up and down pointedly with a smile spreading across his face ](https://gfycat.com/opulentdeliciousfoal) , letting him hang on the hook of the conversation just long enough to be uncomfortable, “Yeah, that too.”

“You gonna stick it out, even when I’m a total headcase? Cause the meds will crap out again, it’s bound to happen.” He reached out and claimed the lit  [ cigarette ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRxFyIjiSIi9VvwH1Tgn8YIvMC8zqLK0NNo_Q&usqp=CAU) , not looking at Mickey, giving him space, wanting honesty.

“Has anything you have ever done in your whole fucking life, Ian Gallagher, chased me away?”

Ian considered. Mickey had been hard to chase down, pin down, in the very beginning. But once he was in, once they were a  _ thing _ , Mickey had been a constant. He’d never stopped being in Ian’s life until the world ripped them apart, and as soon as they were back in range it was like those magnets Michelle talked about, an inescapable pull. Like a black hole of love.

“Have you ever loved anyone else?” Ian made sure his tone wasn’t jealous, but curious. The look Mickey gave him made the deception unnecessary- Mickey knew. “I mean, I know you never let anyone else-”

“-Fuck me?”

“Yeah, but like, I’m askin about feelings.”

“Hmm, lemme think,” Mickey made a  [ comical ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ed0OzFvXgAoILGk?format=jpg&name=small) face, pulling his chin in until it blended into his neck, and thrusting his eyebrows down. “You’re askin if I ever developed feelings for another dude, even though you know damn well I barely tolerate you, and most of the world’s population thinks I’m the biggest dick ever born, so  _ no _ , I never felt like this for anyone else.” 

Catching Ian’s quick blink, he added, “I never loved anyone but you, Gallagher. Before I met you, I didn’t think I would get that, get to have love in my life. And we were so messed up, I wasn’t sure then, I really thought- my dad told me all the time- good things weren’t for me. Only other people got to be happy, or happily ever after, or jobs, or  _ boyfriends _ .”

  
“When did it change?” Softly, Ian laid his head on Mickey’s shoulder, nosing into his neck. Mickey’s arm wrapped around him, pillowing his head and hand coming to rest on Ian’s back. 

Mickey  [ rubbed ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ec5cGb3X0AAOya3?format=jpg&name=360x360) his thumb over his eyebrow, thinking. “Back then, when we were kids, you remember when you  [ showed up ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/54f9727cdeb55ad0fe3de5ae307a2f3d/tumblr_nf1s576seF1sbre09o3_500.gifv) at my house?”

Ian blinked, nodding. He remembered being terrified and having no one else he could think of to run to.

“And I shoulda been pissed, and I was. But I was mostly scared. Terry was there, and I knew if he even saw you, he’d  _ know _ . He’d know what I was thinkin’, even then. And he’d kill both of us.”

“Soft bitch, already had my schedule memorized.”

“Gallagher, please shut up.”

Ian mimed zipping his lips, dropping the imaginary key off the edge of the bed where their discarded clothes still lay scattered where they’d dropped them in their haste to be naked in bed together.

"You were the only person in the world, in the whole world, who knew who I was, and accepted me. And I ain’t just talking about my gay ass. I mean, I didn’t have friends, I just had my family, and they were- well, you know, pretty fucked up. I thought I just wouldn’t ever have friends, even clean. Emily said something to me once, and it made me think. She said ‘Who knows what could happen?’ and for, like, the first time ever, I had an idea that my future wasn’t all shit set in stone.”

He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on a distant memory.

“Seeing you again, then that first hug- all the hugs, with you sniffin me like I was a goddamn candle. But that just told me you wanted me, not that I could keep you, or that you wanted me for more. So, maybe Halloween? When you said you wanted a ‘healthy romantic relationship’ and I thought, ‘hey, maybe that could be  _ me _ .’ Like, I really for the first time thought I could give you that.” 

He laughed self-deprecatingly, so Ian nipped at his chest. 

“Hey, oww! Ok, ok, so yeah. What about you?” Ian lapped at the red mark he’d made.

Ian stopped licking at Mickey’s skin, “What about me?”

“When did you realize you and me were a thing, or would be again?  _ Still _ . Whatever. You know?”

“Oh, lemme think.” Ian put on an exaggerated thinking pout, tapping one finger against his bottom lip. “I don’t think I knew for sure before you went to juvie, the first time. I knew I liked you, a lot. Liked fucking you, spending time with you way more than Kash. But I wasn’t sure until you  [ kissed ](https://d.wattpad.com/story_parts/730809798/images/159d8353db35675f815002249099.gif) me, that afternoon when we robbed Ned’s house.”

“Seriously? That kiss was like- two second long, and no tongue! That’s what did it for you?”

“It was the fact that you did it at all. I didn’t think you ever would, that your closet was too deep, and I shouldn’t even think about you like that- like with feelings.”

“Oh, I had fuckin  _ feelings _ , alright. Feelin like I wanted to murder your daddy-issue boyfriend.” Mickey was getting a little growly, so Ian leaned over, shutting him up with a kiss that demonstrated all the things that had been lacking that afternoon in their youth. Sweetly, so sweetly, Mickey followed along, lips plush and open against him, inviting in his tongue, pressing up to meet him. Ian pulled back with a pant, but Mickey’s eyes stayed  [ shut ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQzg3GTOGWca1NKFTiygfttJ_0f4X9VCC01VA&usqp=CAU) , a grin on his face.

“I knew I wanted this with you, to be boyfriends, to- fuck, to be  _ serious _ , the first time I caught that glimpse of you at my homegroup, but I didn’t think- it took me a while to feel worthy.” Mickey’s hand came up, rubbing his red hair  [ gently ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdoNiZmXkAAP621?format=jpg&name=small) . “You still don’t even really know all the shit I’ve done and I-”

“-Don’t need to know, Gallagher.”

“Don’t you? What if we run into another one of my clients? Or people I hurt?”

“You worry about runnin’ into people  _ I _ messed up when we walk down the street?”

“Well, no but-”

“-Same thing, bitch.”

“Was that a  _ Family Guy _ joke?”

“Maybe.”

Ian was silent, and Mickey shifted under him.

“Look, if you wanna tell me, I can listen. Maybe not, you know, all post-fucking and butt-ass naked, and maybe not without some handcuffs nearby, cause if you tell me someone hurt you, I’m gonna wanna go fuck em up, but I’ll listen.”

“ ‘ _ If I tell you someone hurt me, you’re gonna wanna fuck em up. _ ’ That’s a uniquely Milkovich way to say ‘I love you.’”

Mickey turned his head, putting one hand on either side of Ian’s face, maintaining heady eye contact. “ [ I love you ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/8db7818e51aeff4438c61b1cdd2da015/tenor.gif?itemid=12515301) , ok?  [ I  _ love  _ you ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/43/fb/69/43fb69d7aa89470f1218fc737b495c89.gif) .”

The way he said, with breathy emphasis in the middle of the word, slayed Ian. He knew it wasn’t a word Mickey’s mouth had occasion to be comfortable or familiar with. It was a word Mickey’s mouth only knew for him. 

_ What did you say to that, to a person who had learned a new language, a new feeling, just for you? _

Ian flopped back, hand over his face. It was too much, and he’d asked for it, but it was still too much. Intimacy, conscious contact with another human being. He’d been so focused on developing intimacy and empathy, without realizing how it would feel to find it in return, that giving and receiving of love and acceptance was totally overwhelming his emotions and his senses.

Mickey spoke again, voice a little hesitant, “AJ texted me this thing yesterday - ‘Our real value lies in being ourselves, not in spite of what we went through, but because of it.’ So if you think the shit you did in the past makes you unworthy of- of love, you’re fuckin wrong. I know you were always the one tellin’ me I had options I didn’t see, but maybe you need to hear it too?”

“Options like what? Drug court? Letting my sister watch my every move for the rest of my life?” Ian let out a bitter laugh at the futility of his life. He tried not to think about it, how he was going nowhere fast, no plan.

“Nah, man. I mean- you got me thinking about art, and that fucking GED course, and Tina. What about you- what do you want, after all this?” He waved his hand to indicate their present situation, vaguely.

“I dunno. Whatdya think I should do?”

“Model,” was Mickey’s instant reply. 

Ian snorted out a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence but I think I’m too old for that shit. And I like food a little too much.” He smacked his own belly playfully. “Actually I was looking at classes to get certified as a peer recovery coach.”

“No shit?” Mickey peered at him seriously, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

“Yeah, I’d go into treatment centers and rehabs and schools and talk about my experience. Maybe what I went through could, like, help someone.”

“I like it. ‘Cept they’d all get the hots for you. You’d be fightin off all the baby addicts with a stick.”

“Mick, ‘ _ baby addicts _ ’? Really?”

“Whatever, man. Think it’s a good plan is all I’m saying. Fuckin’ inspiring and shit.”

Ian rested his head on Mickey’s chest, watching the smoke rise into the air and dissipate slowly, thinking soft thoughts, enjoying and being present in the moment.

_ Wish I could spend every day listening to you, hearing what you think about things.  _

_ Always loved you, always will.  _

_ Gonna love you the way you deserve. _

_ The only one I’ve ever loved. _

_ Be in love with you until I die.  _

_ I love you. I  _ **_love_ ** _ you. _

The sun shone in, and a stream illuminated them, bathing the two men in warm light, and both felt, though neither said, that perhaps in that moment, all was right with the world.

[ **By and By** **-** **Caamp** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wo4HVz8aWXE)

* * *

IV. Popping the Question (Monday Afternoon - Mickey)

[Wander - Harbor & Home ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVcZnT5YGo4)

Mickey was worried, again. Something was up with Ian. It had only been a few days, but maybe it was the kid thing? The declaration of love, had it been too much, too soon? Was he regretting it? All weekend it had felt like Ian was avoiding him; everytime Mickey called or texted, the guy was ‘running out the door,’ ‘just jumping in the shower,’ or his personal least favorite, ‘in the middle of something right now.’ 

He was working actively to not project what this might mean. All it meant was that Ian was busy. 

_ Busy was normal. Busy was good, healthy.  _

Mickey was busy too, finalizing his application to adopt Tina, studying for his GED class, writing on his stepwork. A newcomer had even asked Mickey to sponsor him, which was absurd. Mickey’d told him he wasn’t ready, but that he could call him, and gave his number to the new young man. Mickey was also spending every night wishing there was a gangly redhead in the bed with him. Before he got lost in another miasma of insecurity, his phone vibrated against his thigh.

**Ian** **(5:56 PM):** ru busy???

 **Mick** **(5:56PM):** no

 **Ian** **(5:57 PM):** comeovernowpls!

 **Mick** **(5:57PM):** huh?

 **Ian** **(5:58 PM):** COME OVER NOW PLEASE!!!!

 **Ian** **(5:58 PM):** VAN 🚌🚌🚌🚌🚌

There was no question of holding out, claiming he now was the busy one. 

_ Fuck, he was whipped.  _

The automatic critical thought popped up, and he examined it. Was it his, or a received value from Terry? 

_ Definitely a Terry-ism, diminishing human connection, encouraging isolation. _

Knowing what it was like to lose Gallagher, to live without him- hell,  _ yes _ , he’d come running any time. Love did that to a man, he guessed. 

**Mick** **(6:00 PM):** ok ok see you in 5

Mickey was a professional at over-thinking, so turning his brain off long enough to put on his pants was tough. He gritted his teeth and slid his boots on, barely tightening the laces before heading into the living room where  [ Tina ](https://dl5zpyw5k3jeb.cloudfront.net/photos/pets/48014393/1/?bust=1595902229&width=1080) was napping on the couch. 

He spoke to her quietly before touching her, not wanting to startle the dog, figuring if he didn’t like being woken up suddenly, she wouldn’t either. Once she heard his voice, those big eyes snapped to his face, and she cocked her head to the side.

“Walk time? Babygirl wanna go for a walk?” The old Mickey would have never believed the baby-talk that came out of his mouth when it came to his dog, but here they were, him mumbling silly nonsense words and Tina hopping around him excitedly as he tried to clip the leash onto her floral patterned collar.

Finally the two of them made it outside and down the streets to the Gallagher house. They bypassed the front door, and headed around to the yard, where the derelict van still stood, on long flattened tires, gently settling into the concrete as the shocks and springs gave way over time. The former rust holes and patches had joined hands, making giant maps, impossible continents of rust, overtaking any remaining traces of the original paint job. 

He looped Tina’s leash through the old door’s metal handle and just  [ stood ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1288541706493755392) outside the open sliding door, studying the interior, where Gallagher sat, so utterly absorbed in his phone that he hadn’t seemed to notice Mickey standing there yet.

_ This could either be good, or bad. It could be nothing, or it could be something. _ The only way to tell was to have the conversation, use his words. 

Suddenly, Mickey was deeply tired. He was tired of the never-ending nonsense his brain used to fuck with him. He had no evidence that anything was wrong, and all the intuition he’d ever developed in his life hadn’t counted for shit, had never saved him any pain or suffering. 

“Oh, hey, you’re here!” He  [ looked ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcTxnagPBNM8Yz6b7BBpf_YaBvwjios0p5xAtg&usqp=CAU) happy, excited even, to see Mickey. Hair all floppy and shoulder relaxed.

_ That was good, right? _

Mickey felt his face  [ soften ](https://twitter.com/i/status/1286910347350167552) against his will as he climbed into the van to sit next to Gallagher.

“Where’s the fire, firecrotch? You miss me?”

“Of course I did,” Ian slid up to him, pressing their lips together and as soon as Mickey let himself go and start to get lost in his lips, Gallagher pulled back, leaving Mickey in a disgruntled  [ pout ](https://a.wattpad.com/cover/226278514-256-k153540.jpg) .

“Not why I texted though.”

The day Gallagher was  rejecting  choosing not to engage with him physically, that wasn’t a good day, wasn’t a good feeling. 

Mickey stared, [ biting ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ed99WM-WAAIu0dy?format=jpg&name=medium) his lip, dread growing in the pit of his stomach. 

“Here.” Ian produced a small, square box, and held it out. 

“What the fuck is that for?”

“We’ve been through this bit already, Mick. Present?”

“S’not my birthday. Not Christmas.”

Ian sat back,  [ crossing ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ed3e32UXgAUg-do?format=jpg&name=small) his arms. “Do I need an occasion to get my boyfriend a present?”

_ His boyfriend.  _

_ Still.  _

_ Thank fuck. _

Ian pressed the box into Mickey’s chest like it was the muzzle of a gun, but he ignored it in favor of  [ gazing in Gallagher’s face ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EdxVRnSXYAAY121?format=jpg&name=medium) , trying to figure out what in the hell was going on.

_ Was this a … proposal? _

Knowing he had little choice, he took the  [ box ](http://resourcewebsite.singoo.cc/14974198033924107/en/image/5b456a4b7b82e.jpg_.webp) from Ian’s hands, still skeptically studying the redhead. He scrabbled with the ribbon for a minute, unable to get his short fingernails through the knot, finally resorting to biting it with his teeth. 

Ian  [ sat ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQHlZqlgOMO5aq47YQUmF_PPTQJP-WnybAGzw&usqp=CAU) , head resting on one arm, looking disaffected by the process, not at all like a man who was suggesting a lifelong commitment.

Mickey opened the box and looked inside: he stopped moving. He looked from the box to Ian’s face, and back. 

“The fuck is this?” He picked up the shiny thing up with two fingers, like it was a dangerous insect.

“It’s a key to the front door. I want you to live with me. Be able to come over whenever you want, have all your shit and mine mixed together.”

“You’re askin me to move in with you? Fiona know about this?”

“I’m not asking you to move in with  _ Fiona _ ! I got the apartment, the low income lottery thing.”

“No shit, man? Thought that took - what’d you say, years?”

“Someone put in a good word. Plus, I asked for pet-friendly, and most people on the list don’t want that.”

“Huh.” Mickey was close to speechless, all energy directed to the hurricane in his mind.

_ Was this better or worse than a proposal? What would he have said? What was he going to say about this? _

“Yeah, so I know it was kinda presumptuous of me to, like, assume you and Tina would want to live with me but I figured I’d have a few years to figure shit out, and it, if you know, we changed, I could always change my application, but then I got the call from Ed, and I went to look at it- the place isn’t much, but the apartment complex has a gym, Mick! It’s some commuter haven, and they had to have a certain percent of the apartments dedicated to low-income, or in my case, no-income, I guess, and- yeah. I got an apartment and I want you there.”

Mickey held the key up in one hand, a  [ puzzled ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRwH7FOqnGwBrnpRK26OCJiRq1ZU3rBYh6yZA&usqp=CAU) look on his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His head was empty. All higher order thinking had fled. It was halcyon days in there, just warmth and chirpy birds. He blinked a few times.

He found some words.

“Gallagher, I thought you were- fuck, I thought you were  _ proposing _ . In this shitty van.”

“What? No! I mean- not yet? Or- do you want to? Is that what  _ you  _ want?”

“You do remember my last marriage, right? I’m in no rush to do that shit again any time soon.”

“Ok, cool. Same page, cool.” Ian was  [ nodding ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a276d648653d7c4fefa93c646a95ca5f/tumblr_n2nieg5yLl1s3bhqso2_250.gif) , mostly to himself, and Mickey reached out, putting a hand on the back of his neck. 

Ian  [ faced ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/BleakNearHanumanmonkey-size_restricted.gif) him seriously then, asking, “Is that a yes?”

Mickey broke into a  [ smile ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/019e798770ee2bbdb139afcafd49a511/tumblr_p5dywfBOna1u0hx8uo1_500.gifv) , “Yeah, man, sure. More than ready to blow the popsicle stand that Terry built.”

“Thank fuck, Mick, I was seriously shitting myself over here.” Gallagher’s face broke into a  [ happy, relaxed ](https://em.wattpad.com/d3965aab602294a9f46bc9397f3a24e36bde93c7/68747470733a2f2f7365637572652e7374617469632e74756d626c722e636f6d2f65333864336536613539333239316263336566653565363433323330306565662f6c62637a6b666e2f3452356e76336467662f74756d626c725f7374617469635f74756d626c725f7374617469635f38737631633078686769636377733867776767346b386f67775f3634302e676966?s=fit&h=360&w=360&q=80) mien.

Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What was I gonna do, turn down a newer apartment that didn’t make me have to relive my trauma every time I wanted to watch TV?”

“You could have said no. You can  _ still  _ say no, if you want to.”

“Gallagher, I ain’t sayin’ no-”

“-Because I had a whole plan of how I’d convince you to say yes, if you had, like hesitated.”

Mickey sat back, rolling his shoulders.

“A plan to convince me, eh? Tell me all about this plan.”

“I was gonna tell you about the central air and the dishwasher. And then I was gonna work my wiles on you.”

“Your ‘wiles’? What were you gonna do, cuddle me to death? Give me hickeys and orgasms until I said yes?”

“Pretty much,” Ian admitted happily.

“Sounds like a good start.” Mickey pulled him down and in, until their lips met,  [ hungry and open ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/65dc22da7c30cf20561b65814fdb277f/tumblr_oi2k19zwK51tuehrqo1_500.gifv) to each other, sharing air and tongues and love.

_ Sharing love.  _

_ Fuckin primary spiritual principle, right there.  _

_ Love. _

[ Good Old Days - The Features ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzI531EA8bg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I had to read a LOT of other fics to get through this sexy scene and I will give credit to the authors.  
> Works referenced or otherwise utilized during the writing of this chapter, with the greatest of love:  
> [Is There Somewhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208980)  
> [A Bureaucratic Nightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270534)  
> [Health Issues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743475)  
> [Gentrification](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752680?view_full_work=true)  
> 2\. "Those wishing to discover a new land must spend a long time at sea." is a quote from the Living Clean NA book.  
> 3\. Yes, I did get a little self-indulgent with the music.  
> 4\. I saw a Twitter post about how Noel decided Mickey fell in love with Ian after that moment in Season 1, so I used it here.  
> 5\. That is indeed a [Family Guy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCRLRI7BNok) reference.  
> 6\. The wait for low income housing is absurdly long, not days or weeks, and pet-friendly accommodations are MORE in demand than not. Sorry to misrepresent reality.  
> 7\. PTSD doesn't just go away all at once. One fuck doesn't fix Ian, and I don't mean to suggest that here. But it does show progress.  
> 8\. I realized that deviating post season-3 means Mickey doesn't have his terrible Ian Galager tattoo. Which is FINE.  
> 9\. "Our real value lies in being ourselves, not in spite of what we went through, but because of it," is another quote from Living Clean. I love that book so much.  
> 10\. This story will continue in a sequel, after one or two other projects I have brewing in this fandom. Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and being such great fans!


End file.
